Choirboy Caffrey
by penna.nomen
Summary: Pre-series, following the story Caffrey Conversation (in which Peter goes undercover in 2003 and ends up recruiting Neal as a consultant). In this story, Neal makes plans to infiltrate a Christmas concert, and in the process meets someone who could use the FBI's help. Then he has to convince the FBI it's a legitimate case. Spoilers for Judgment Day and season 4
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Prelude to a Case**

**St. Louis hotel room. Friday morning. Early December, 2003. **

_A/N: White Collar and its characters are the creation of Jeff Eastin. They are not mine. Sigh._

_In the story Caffrey Conversation, I had Peter say Neal "looks like a freaking choirboy" and that inspired the idea of Choirboy Caffrey. It seemed ideal for a holiday story. I just needed a choir for Neal to join. _

_Additional inspiration came from the season 1 episode Book of Hours. With multiple scenes set in a church, and Peter and Neal debating what constitutes a miracle, it frequently came to mind as I tried to create a Christmas-themed case._

Neal Caffrey picked up the business card he'd _borrowed_ from Special Agent Peter Burke, and twirled it through his fingers as if he were performing a card trick. He didn't need to see the card to keep it moving smoothly; instead he gazed at the Gateway Arch from his hotel room window. It still felt odd to see that landmark, to be back in the city where he grew up. He'd come here to participate in a museum heist as a favor to Mozzie, and had been shocked to find Peter here, too. Peter had been undercover as the client, and when Neal helped him maintain his cover, suddenly the sides had changed. Neal ended up working with Peter against the unhinged leader of the crew, and was instrumental in the man's arrest.

Ten minutes ago Peter had left for the airport, heading back home to New York. But Neal had a commitment keeping him here. He also had unfinished business. Turning away from the window, Neal put down the business card and dialed the number on it.

When U.S. Marshal Simon Preston answered, Neal reminded him how they had met the day before and said, "I could use your help. I need a birth certificate and a background in order to work for the FBI."

"The U.S. Marshal's Office isn't in the business of issuing birth certificates to just anyone. We only do that in special circumstances. You'll need to provide proof that you meet the criteria. Can you do that?"

"I think you have a good idea who I am," Neal said.

"I think I do, too. But I need proof. We'll need to take fingerprints and ask you a few questions." Simon invited Neal to his office to complete the process that afternoon. With the conversation over, Neal was at a loss. The government was being helpful. Accommodating. This was disconcerting. And boring.

"I'm bored," he said aloud, surprised. In the 6 years since he'd run away from home, he'd been too busy to be bored. After dealing with the basics like shelter, he would explore the cities he visited. Museums, art galleries, libraries, concert halls, restaurants – there had been plenty to keep him occupied in every location when he wasn't busy planning a crime. He knew St. Louis offered all of these same amenities. He might be more familiar with this city, but much would have changed over the years. He knew, intellectually, that he could find new entertainment if he tried, the same way he had in any other city. But coming back here seemed to bring out the petulant child in him. He could imagine himself at 10 whining to his mother, "There's nothing to do."

Usually at that point his mother would turn him over to Ellen, which was not an option anymore. Contacting Ellen again wasn't a good idea, not if he wanted to stay on the Marshals' good side. But he could prepare for the meet she'd set up for Sunday night. Her church was hosting a Christmas concert, and she'd promised to leave a pager there for him to pick up during the event.

In theory it was simple. The church would be filled with visitors from the community. A stranger wouldn't be questioned, and could be excused for getting disoriented and wandering off the beaten path. On the other hand, members of the church would be shepherding visitors into the pews and would be likely to follow a wanderer to send him in the right direction. He'd have more freedom if he could pass himself off as a member of one of the visiting choirs. They would arrive early, and stay late. They would be dressed in matching robes that made them anonymous.

A call to the church told him which choirs were participating this year. A Catholic parish in the neighborhood was sending its women's choir, and a Baptist youth choir was participating. A Methodist adult choir would perform, plus a men's choir from the Concordia seminary. And of course the adult and children's choirs from the hosting church would take part.

Neal remembered the Methodist choir from previous Christmases. They were amazing and would probably be fun to join, but were primarily African American. Not the best choice if he wanted to blend in. Joining the choir from Ellen's church was risky. She'd taken Neal to her church often in his youth, and he might be recognized if he spent several hours with them. The seminary was his best bet. Students in a college choir would turnover every few years as they graduated, so members of the other choirs wouldn't be surprised to see new faces.

With a grin, he grabbed his jacket on his way out. Time to pass himself off as a student of theology.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal loved college campuses. It was easy to disappear into the crowds of students. There were a variety of events for entertainment, libraries for research, and student centers to crash in for a while if you wanted food or simply needed a place to rest and plan a getaway. A variety of helpful students at Concordia, under the misconception that Neal was on campus to enroll for the next semester, told him the choir director's name was Professor Evan Bell. They also provided the professor's schedule and the location of the choir room.

He picked up a campus map and studied it over lunch. Then he found the choir room, arriving about 20 minutes before practice was scheduled to start. There was a piano, of course, and there was also a guitar. He picked it up and strummed softly as he wandered around the room, reviewing the stacks of sheet music laid out for the next rehearsal. Most were for carols he already knew. He opened the music to a song he wasn't familiar with, and was intrigued. He put away the guitar and tried the melody of this new song on the piano.

Neal didn't have Mozzie's gift of perfect recall, but he did have a good ear for music. He picked up tunes quickly and could usually play the basic melody of a song after hearing it a couple of times. He stayed in practice, partly for the joy of it, and partly because playing piano and guitar kept his fingers nimble for pick-pocketing and safe cracking. Reaching the end of the song, he started over again, singing along this time.

The words were what you'd expect for a Christmas choral piece, but the tune took him by surprise. It was modern, with a rock beat. He was surprised he hadn't heard it on the radio, because it should be a hit for whatever group recorded it. It was hard to imagine a Midwestern college choir getting this music ahead of its being released more broadly.

And there was something familiar about the song, something that took him back a few years.

"Can I help you?" The questioner had the least welcoming tone Neal had encountered on this campus. Someone wasn't happy to find him here.

Neal stopped playing and stood up to face the man who had entered the room. He offered his most winning smile. "Sorry. I saw the music and couldn't help myself. You must be Professor Bell."

"Unfortunately, no. I'm leading the choir for the next few days until Professor Bell gets back on his feet." The man was about 15 years older than Neal, with blond hair and brown eyes, was slightly under average height, and 10 pounds overweight. He wore the corduroy and tweed of the stereotypical professor. There was absolutely nothing exceptional about him, and yet…

Like the song, this man's voice took Neal back to his teenage years. He felt he should recognize this person. "I'm sorry I missed him. Maybe you can help me. Professor…?"

"Michael Darling."

As in Wendy's brother in _Peter Pan_. As in the platinum rock album _Neverland_ released by Local Devastation when Neal was 14. Michael Darling was a member of that band and the Grammy-winning composer of most of their songs until he left the group 5 years ago. They'd only lasted a year without him. Neal eyes widened as he picked up the sheet music. "Whoa. You wrote this. I'm actually holding a new Michael Darling song. Why aren't there screaming fans chasing you across campus?"

"It's been long enough that most people don't recognize my name anymore, and they don't exactly listen to a lot of 90's rock here. I'd appreciate it if you didn't make a big deal out of it. I need to keep the choir focused for their performance this weekend, and not distract them with stories about my old life."

"Fine. I'm not here to cause trouble."

"Then why are you here? I know everyone in the music department. You don't work here, and you aren't a student. Are you another writer?"

"I wish. I love music but I can't write it."

"That's not what I meant." Michael walked to the end of the room and back again. "There's always another magazine wanting to publish a 'What became of Michael Darling' story. It slowed down for a while but I should have expected a resurgence, now that…" He paced the room one more time. "If Ty sent you, tell him the answer is still _no_."

Ty Merchant, lead singer of Local Devastation. _Interesting_. "Believe me, I am a big fan and it's an honor to meet you, but it's also a complete surprise. If I'd had any idea you were here, I wouldn't have been playing your song. I mean, it's like having Van Gogh watching me draw a cartoon of a sunflower. Or preparing a microwave dinner in front of Wolfgang Puck. I'd run away out of embarrassment if I weren't too awed to leave."

Michael's posture relaxed slightly. "I'm not usually so paranoid. But I'm still confused about why you're here." Before Neal could answer, footsteps sounded in the hall. The choir was arriving, and Michael grimaced, looking displeased at the interruption.

"I'm here to rummage through your drawers and steal your precious belongings."

"What?" asked a startled Michael.

"I'm kidding." As the choir members filed into the room, Neal tailored his answer for his audience. "I love a good mystery, and I'm considering making that my vocation. Religion attempts to answer the biggest mysteries of life. Where else would I start but at a seminary?"

The students welcomed Neal, who made himself at home to listen to the rehearsal. He knew they would be too polite to kick him out if he acted like he belonged there. Michael grudgingly invited him to sing with them. But handing out the music, he made a comment under his breath when he stopped at Neal's chair. "You have a gift for not sharing any details. I still want answers."

When Michael sat at the piano and started playing the traditional carol "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming," Neal held his breath. He couldn't believe he was watching a legendary keyboardist at work, listening to him sing in what felt like a private concert. For a while he forgot about everything but the music.

As the rehearsal continued, it settled into the pattern Neal had expected. This time of year, several students had succumbed to colds. Two were likely to miss Sunday's concert. After letting Neal participate in their practice, they realized he had a solid singing voice and asked if he could be a substitute choir member Sunday night. He agreed to join a dress rehearsal Saturday afternoon, and with that he was in.

He was in Michael Darling's band. Well, his choir. If Neal were still a teenager he'd be dancing around the room now.

He was trying on a choir robe for size when his phone vibrated. Peter's number. _Shouldn't he be on a flight to New York by now? _ "Peter?"

"Neal, I need you to pick me up at the airport."

"What happened to your flight?"

"There's a blizzard in Chicago. Any flights connecting through there were delayed and then cancelled. I have a new reservation for Saturday. And you have a roommate for another day."

"Great."

"And there's no need to make the FBI pay for a rental car for me, when you already have one."

"In other words, all the rental company had left were sub-compacts. You know, you could get a cab."

"I have something better than a cab. I have you."

"I'm sort of in the middle of something here, Peter."

"I'm looking forward to hearing all about it. Remember when I told you that until we've worked together long enough to trust each other, your best tactic is to follow orders? Well, you're getting a chance to practice."

"I didn't expect to become your chauffer."

"No problem. Once you get here, I'll drive."

"Your name isn't on the rental agreement."

"Hell, _your_ name isn't on the rental agreement. They think someone named Henry Winslow, who is 27 rather than 24, is driving their car. How soon can you get here?"

"I'm on my way." Neal pocketed his phone and shrugged out of the robe. The choir members had left, and Michael was leaning against the piano, watching Neal with clear intent to find out why he wanted to join a college choir. "I've got to go, but you know those details I left out? One of them is the FBI agent I'm picking up at the airport. I have contacts if you need help." Neal grabbed a piece of paper and wrote his number. "You can call me here."

"What makes you think I need help?"

"I have a lot of experience running away. You look like someone who's tempted to run."

"Am I finally going to get answers about what you're doing here if I call?"

"More than you'll get if you don't call."

_A/N: Concordia is a real Lutheran Seminary, but all of the characters Neal meets there are fictional. The band Local Devastation, its members, albums, songs and lyrics are also figments of my imagination._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: A Case of Angst**

**St. Louis. Friday afternoon. Early December, 2003. **

When Neal picked him up at the airport, Peter placed his luggage in the trunk of Neal's rental car and then opened the driver's door. "I said I'll drive. Go around to the passenger side."

"Listen, Peter. There's a stop I have to make on the way back to the hotel. It makes more sense for me to drive. I know the area better."

"Because you used to live here." Peter took Neal's frown as acknowledgement. He'd never met anyone more reluctant to talk about his past. Each time over the last couple of days the kid slipped up and mentioned a childhood memory while under the influence of a fever or prescription cold meds, you'd think he'd betrayed national secrets. "Great. You can navigate."

From the passenger seat, Neal gave directions toward the downtown area. Then he slumped down in the seat, arms crossed, giving every indication he didn't want to talk.

"It was a zoo in there once they started cancelling flights," Peter said.

No response.

"What, you're going to sulk now?"

"Take the next exit and turn left." Neal closed his eyes.

Although there was plenty of time and space to merge into the next lane, Peter swerved sharply, causing Neal to slide into the door and open his eyes. Peter gave his best version of an evil smile. "Do I have your attention?"

"Eyes on the road!" Neal insisted as he sat up and clutched the arm rest. "God! Do you have a death wish?"

"Tell me where we're going," Peter said as he took the exit.

"I told you, take a left. It'll be about 2 miles."

"Two miles to what? C'mon, Neal. In a few minutes we'll be there and I'll know what our destination is."

"It's not the what I'm worried about, it's the why. We're going to the U.S. Marshals' office."

"Why?"

Neal sighed. "I don't know if I can tell you. Keeping it secret is part of the deal. I think."

"You realize that kind of non-answer just annoys me, don't you?"

"Here! End of this block on the right-hand side."

Peter gave up and parked. In the office building they were greeted by tall, Nordic blond U.S. Marshal Simon Preston who said, "Agent Burke. I didn't realize you would be joining us."

"Me neither," said Peter and Neal simultaneously.

Looking at Neal, the Marshal asked, "Have you told the FBI about your situation?"

"I haven't told anyone. Ever." Neal ran his hands through his hair in what Peter was learning to recognize as a sign of stress.

"Alright," the Marshal said soothingly, "let's take your fingerprints first. Then we'll talk."

A few minutes later in a conference room, Neal wiped the ink from his fingers and the Marshal asked, "What name do you go by now? Danny? Henry?"

"Neal."

"Is that wise?"

"It's who I am. Neal Caffrey."

"Alright. Neal it is. As a soon-to-be employee of the FBI, it's reasonable to have someone in a supervisory capacity aware of your situation. Do you trust Agent Burke to be the person holding this information?"

"Yeah, but if it goes in my file –"

"Understood," the Marshal interrupted. "Agent Burke, will you sign a statement of confidentiality, and swear under oath that you will not share any information you learn here about Neal Caffrey and his family?"

"You were in Witness Protection," Peter said, ignoring the Marshal. That was the only explanation that fit what he'd learned about Neal and the Marshals' interest in him.

"I –" Neal started.

"Answer the question, Agent Burke," the Marshal insisted.

"Yeah, give me the damn form." As he signed, Peter said, "This is why you didn't want your aversion to chicken soup going in your file, isn't it? You didn't want anyone to know you'd been hospitalized for food poisoning when you were 6, because it could be used to track down where you lived and who your parents were."

Neal nodded.

The Marshal opened a file. "You left Witness Protection voluntarily at the age of 18, but did not contact the Marshal's office for assistance in the transition. Having contacted us now, you are entitled to support in establishing your identity. We will provide a birth certificate and the 10 years' history of residence the FBI requires for employment. You are not requesting protection for yourself. However, you have an obligation to maintain secrecy around those who remain in the program. I need you to sign that you understand this obligation and agree to these terms." The Marshal slid a form across the table to Neal, who signed. "Assuming your fingerprints match the ones we filed when you entered the program, everything should be in order. I do want to ask you a few questions to help verify your identity while we wait for those results. Can you tell me who your parents were, and when and why your family entered Witness Protection?"

"My mother was Meredith Caffrey. She was a chef for a catering company –"

"Wait. A professional chef gave you food poisoning?" Peter had to ask.

"Yes. She was very embarrassed. And probably buzzed." Then Neal turned back to the Marshal and resumed his emotionless recital of facts. "She married James Bennett, a DC Metro cop. My birth name was Neal Bennett, and I was their only child. When I was 3 years old he…" Neal paused a beat before continuing. "He confessed to murder. His partner from the force, my mother and myself went into WITSEC, and were moved to St. Louis."

"Who did he kill?" Peter asked.

"I don't know. I didn't even realize we were in WITSEC until I turned 18. Mom always told me Dad died a hero in a shootout with a gang of bad guys. On my 18th birthday Ellen, my dad's partner, told me the truth. Or she started to. When it got to be too much, I left to clear my head, drove too fast on a rain-slick road and ended up in a lake. I woke up in an ambulance, with EMTs telling me I'd drowned and been resuscitated. I took it as a sign that I needed to get away and start a new life. I ran away and never came back to St. Louis until this week."

"Alright. Thank you, Neal," the Marshal said. "That coincides with our files. You've already touched on when you were hospitalized at the age of 6. There was also an incident when you were 9. Tell me about that."

Neal stiffened. "Do I have to?"

"It's a significant event. If you can't confirm it, it throws your identity into question."

"I can tell you what Ellen told me when it was over. I just don't remember it happening."

"Tell me what you know."

"Mom had a boyfriend who liked to hit me. When Ellen realized what was going on, my mom broke up with him. We thought it was over, but one day he followed me home from school and seriously hurt me. I ended up in a hospital for while. As I healed physically, I suppressed the memories. Sometimes, rarely, I get a flashback." He swallowed. "I think I saw a water fountain as we walked over here?"

"Yes. Feel free to take a break."

After Neal left, Peter said. "He had a flashback yesterday. He wouldn't tell me any details, but I'm obligated to follow up on suspected child abuse. Can you confirm the assailant was caught and imprisoned?"

"Yes," the Marshal said. "I was briefed on the case. He went to prison and died there." As Peter drew a breath for his next question, the Marshal shook his head. "That's all I can tell you. However… If you notice the flashbacks happening frequently, see if you can get him to talk to a therapist. I can't even imagine what that kind of experience does to a child."

"What about his dad? I assume he went to prison if he confessed to murder."

"Yes. He was released a couple of years ago, and was warned not to make any attempt at contacting his family. His wife had filed for divorce, so they were not reunited. If you hear of James Bennett looking for Neal, inform us immediately."

"Is Bennett dangerous?" Peter asked.

"To his son? Not directly. But we don't want him drawing the attention of the people he's supposed to be hiding from."

"And who would that be?"

"A combination of other dirty cops and the Irish mob. It was ugly. I'm sure you can look up the old news reports for much of the story. If Neal has questions about what happened to his dad, send him to us. I'd avoid using FBI resources to do research on James Bennett. Some of those dirty cops likely moved into positions of greater power over the years and could be watching for searches on James. You don't want to draw their attention to Neal."

Neal returned a few minutes later. He stood in the doorway. "Are we done here?"

The Marshal pulled a photo out of the file folder. The photo showed a dark-haired boy of about 6 asleep in a hospital bed. A blond woman rested her head on the bedside, her right arm reaching over the child, holding on to him. One of the child's hands rested on her arm. "My predecessor took the picture. He said this was when he realized Ellen was functioning as your mother at least as much as your biological mother was. I can't give you any family photos, but since you don't see her face in this one, I thought it would be safe to give you." He stood and handed the photo over to Neal. "Our New York office will deliver your documents to the FBI on Monday. Good luck."

Neal walked back to the rental car at a rapid pace, his eyes cast downward. A step away from the car, he looked up and took a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about any of that, ever again."

Peter doubted someone with Neal's inquisitive mind could refrain from asking more questions about his family in the long term, but he let it go for now. "You've evaded the Marshals for 6 years?"

"I thought of it more as _avoided_ than _evaded_."

"And I'll bet you'd have avoided this meeting indefinitely, if it hadn't been for the FBI's offer."

"Probably."

"Why not forge a birth certificate? I've seen your work. It must have crossed your mind."

"You've seen my work. You might have been looking for a fake, and caught it. That would kill our deal before it even started."

"You seriously want this opportunity." When Neal didn't respond, Peter continued, "I told you it won't be easy adjusting to things at the Bureau. But I respect the hell out of the effort you're making to meet our demands. I promise you, I'll do whatever I can to make this work." He unlocked the car door. "Any more errands?"

"No."

"Good. Then let's get some food. I assume you can recommend a restaurant around here."

Neal looked out to the street and blinked, as if surprised to see the Friday rush hour traffic. Everyone was heading home or out to dinner. "You like Italian, right?"

"How did you know? No. Never mind. I don't think I want to hear the answer." Peter followed Neal's directions to a nearby restaurant. Neal shed the somber attitude he'd shown since picking up Peter at the airport, and was more chatty after their food arrived. But most of what he said was in Italian, and involved gushing over the food with the wait staff and then with the restaurant's owner.

By the time they returned to the hotel room, everything seemed back to normal. Peter had placed his suitcase on his bed and was putting away his clothes when Neal said, "Have you unpacked your laptop yet? I want to do some research. I may have found a case for us."

Peter turned around, still holding a suit jacket he'd been about to hang up. "Excuse me?"

"I met someone this afternoon who needs our help."

"Neal, we're not a couple of PIs for hire. The FBI is a government agency. You don't pick your cases. We tell you what cases to work."

"Seriously? If someone asks you for help, you just tell him no."

"No. Of course not. We send them to the appropriate branch of the Bureau or other law enforcement agency. Whoever you met today should probably start with the local cops. The New York White Collar division doesn't take cases in St. Louis."

"Right. That's why they flew you out here for a case."

"A case that originated in New York."

"So if I could find a tie to New York, you'd look at this case?"

Peter had a feeling he should say _no_. But he hated to discourage Neal the first time he showed interest in solving a crime rather than committing one. And his own curiosity was in overdrive. What kind of a case would peak Neal's interest? "I'll make you a deal."

Neal flashed a grin that already had Peter worried.

"You have until midnight to make a connection to a white collar crime in New York. You can use my laptop, but you will not access any FBI systems or files."

"But—"

"Anything you need from those resources, I will look up. At midnight, you stop. Then you think through everything you've found, and how you would present the case to the FBI. Over breakfast I'll give you 10 minutes to convince me it's a legitimate case that falls in our jurisdiction."

"I'll only need 5."

Peter laughed as he finally hung up his suit jacket. "Don't count on it. I'll have at least 5 minutes' worth of questions."

Neal pulled out the laptop and powered it up. "What's your password?"

"Nice try."

_A/N_ _The scene with the Marshal reflects my own ideas about what should happen in the situation of leaving WITSEC and needing to establish a post-WITSEC identity. Has anyone researched how it really works? I'd be interested to know more about it for future stories._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: A Little Music Case**

**St. Louis hotel room. Friday night. Early December, 2003. **

Neal dove into his research eagerly. Local Devastation had been his favorite band as a teenager, but in the last 2 years he'd been too busy to keep up with the groups he'd once followed avidly. Reading up on their history and current status was like catching up with old friends. He pulled out an MP3 player and earbuds, listening to _Neverland_ as he worked.

An hour later, he started to have doubts. Nothing he could find on public sites explained what he'd observed this afternoon. Michael Darling had seemed afraid of something, had described himself as becoming paranoid because of it, and had mentioned that Ty Merchant wanted something from him. But so far Neal hadn't found anything that provided insight into why. At this rate, he wasn't going to find evidence of any crime, much less a tie to a white collar crime in New York, which Peter insisted he find by midnight if Neal wanted the FBI to take the case.

What if… It was almost too terrible to think it. What if he'd been wrong? What if there really wasn't a case here? Peter would be understanding. That was almost the worst part. He'd patiently point out that Neal was being impetuous, and would take the opportunity to teach him how things were really supposed to work. And for the rest of Neal's career with the FBI, Peter would remind him about the case that wasn't a case every time Neal jumped to a wrong conclusion.

But there was a case. He was sure of it. He was just looking at it from the wrong perspective. Pushing the laptop away, he removed the earbuds, stretched and considered his next steps.

"Need help?" asked Peter, who had been watching a basketball game.

"No, I got it," Neal said automatically, then regretted it when he saw the disappointment on Peter's face. Why was he turning down help? Especially given Mozzie's advice to learn everything he could about FBI processes and tools while he could. If the immunity arrangement didn't work out and he stuck to a life of crime, at least he'd have gained something useful from his time with the Feds. "Well, actually, I could use your help. You said you'd look some things up in the FBI systems if I needed access?"

Peter turned off the TV and immediately transformed from lethargic couch potato mode into energized agent. He was almost rubbing his hands together in eagerness. "What have we got?"

Neal had to laugh. "You were bored."

"Yeah, well there's nothing to do around here but watch TV or watch you stare at a computer. Both were getting old."

It seemed Peter also had an inner 10-year-old whining _There's nothing to do_. Neal pushed the laptop toward Peter, who pulled up a chair to the hotel room's desk. "I'm looking into a band called Local Devastation. Rumor has the individual members rolling in money or bankrupt, depending on who you believe. I need to know the truth about their financial situation to see if one of them has motive."

"Motive for what?" Peter asked as he logged into an FBI system.

"Let's follow the money, first. I still have until tomorrow morning to present the case, remember?"

"Right. I'll look up what we have on the band as an entity, and the individual members. Give me their names."

"Michael Darling, Ty Merchant, Trevor Merchant, Theo Guy."

"Did this band make it big enough to have agents, business managers, record deals?" Peter paused and glanced up at Neal. "You still with me?"

"Peter, are you telling me you haven't heard of Local Devastation?"

"I'm not really into music. That's more El's thing. Were they big?"

"Yeah. Lots of hits in the late '90's. Several Grammies. They were an alternate rock band, heavy on piano and keyboards in general. Think Coldplay. Or Muse; they would be a better comparison but they aren't as well-known in the States yet." When Peter looked at him blankly, Neal shook his head. "I can see I have a lot to teach you."

"I think you're forgetting who's the student here. What I'm trying to get at is, if they were a success, they have a lot of financial connections. People who profited from them, either legally or illegally. Are those angles we should be looking into?"

"Well…"

"Yes?"

"If this were a case that had been assigned to me by the FBI, would I be looking into it alone?"

"It would depend on the complexity of the case. Some are solved by an agent at his or her desk, going through the files of evidence. Others have a team assigned, especially if there's going to be field work, and… Oh, I see where you're going with this. You are not going to con me into being your research assistant while you go off in another direction."

"Peter, you wound me. All I did was show interest in learning how things will work at the FBI. That's what I'm supposed to be learning tonight, right? I haven't asked you to do anything that you didn't offer to do."

"But you were about to."

Neal shrugged rather than answer. He had hoped to leave the boring research to Peter while he tried another approach. His normal reflex was to lie, and to deny any intention of taking advantage of the mark. But Peter wasn't a mark. And more distressingly, Neal's ability to lie faltered around Peter. Neal blamed this on a joke he'd started a few days ago, when he introduced Peter as his stepfather. Maybe it was the fault of the fever he'd been running at the time, but now Neal couldn't remove Peter from the part of his brain reserved for father figures, for people you obeyed and trusted and didn't lie to, because you desperately want them to like and trust you. More than that, Neal wanted to impress Peter.

He really, really hoped Peter wouldn't figure out the kind of power he had over Neal's psyche. And he hoped that power would fade over time. Now he was left with the options of making technically true but misleading comments, redirects, and pleading the 5th when dealing with Peter.

Neal automatically fell into conman mode when he wanted something from someone. Being open and honest felt unnatural in that scenario. There was something scary about opening himself up and taking the chance of the real him facing rejection. Running a con put him in a role; he was pretending, and that gave him a buffer from the sting of rejection. He reminded himself that open and honest would win points with Peter. Could he con Peter into trusting him by making a point of _not_ conning him? Was that technically a con? And if so, was he conning Peter or himself?

"Here's the thing," Neal said, aware of Peter's intense scrutiny. "I'm under pressure to find a tie to New York. Those financial connections you mentioned are the most likely to uncover that kind of tie. But I don't think that's how we're going to solve the case. My read on the situation is that whatever is going on is personal. Money is a likely motivator, but it's motivating someone close to Michael Darling, rather than some corporate entity putting pressure on him."

Peter smiled. "Excellent. That's exactly the kind of status I need from my team, to know what's going on and give them direction. We'll look into the band members and Michael Darling's immediate family, and will hold off on the corporate angle. Or if we were in the office, we could hand off the lower probability lead to a junior agent to research." He entered Michael Darling's name into an FBI search engine.

"Is that how you plan to use me, Peter? As a junior team member doing research?"

"This Darling guy has an interesting past. Did you know… What?" Peter looked up to face Neal again. "Research? I'm sure you'll spend time on that, especially when we're first trying to integrate you into the team. It's not the most fun, but it's a valuable learning experience, and none of us can simply come to a halt on a case because there isn't a probie there to do the grunt work for us. We all need to know how to do our own research. Beyond that, I haven't decided. The more I learn about how you work, how you _think_, the better idea I'll have of how you can help us."

All the more pressure to impress Peter now. Neal leaned in to read the info Peter had on his screen. "Yeah, his history with drugs is well known. It's the reason he left Local Devastation. He said he needed to get away from the rock star lifestyle if he was going to stay clean. Now he's a professor of music at a local seminary."

"Hmm." Peter ran another search. "And the band essentially folded. They still get money for sales of their old music, but aren't generating income from new songs and concerts. You think one of them blames Michael Darling for that?"

"That's my working theory. He mentioned Ty wants something from him, something he doesn't want to do."

After a few more searches, Peter said, "I don't think your working theory is working too well. Ty Merchant is doing the best of the bunch. He's getting some big advances coming in from his old record company. It's Trevor Merchant and Theo Guy who are struggling. Doesn't look like they're getting any steady income these days. Theo Guy's in some serious debt. But this is interesting. All 4 of them have booked travel to New York. They were there on the same day in October, and are going back in February."

"There's my New York connection."

"Yeah, they're connected to New York, but not to a crime."

"Not yet. I need to call someone who can tell me what keeps taking them to New York." Neal looked expectantly at Peter.

"So call."

"A little privacy? This is an old friend I haven't talked to in over a year. We'll have a little catching up to do. You let your agents make personal calls, right?"

"Fine," Peter grumbled. "I'll buy the coffee this time. What do you want?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter wrote down Neal's inordinately complex coffee order, and took the elevator to the lobby, only to find the hotel's coffee shop was closed for the evening. Not a big deal. One of the major coffee chains had location in the next block. But it was cold and pouring rain out there. He went back upstairs to get his coat.

As Peter walked into the room, he could hear Neal saying, "Yeah, he was upset when I broke off our partnership, and started telling people I couldn't hack it anymore because I was dying. I think he changed what I was dying from every time he told the story. At least once he said it was the plague. I didn't do anything about it, because it made it easier if he discouraged people from looking for me. Even when he was mad at me, he was doing me a favor. And I didn't think anyone would care."

Peter slid open the closet door as quietly as he could. Neal was facing the other direction, looking out the window as he talked.

"I didn't mean it that way. I thought the people who mattered wouldn't care because you know his most outrageous stories are lies." A pause. "Yeah, he wasn't the world's greatest mentor, but he saved my life, and he introduced me to you. I'll always be grateful for that." Neal turned around and saw Peter. "Hold on a sec." He muted the phone. "Is the whole privacy concept too challenging for the government to grasp?"

"On my way out," Peter promised, grabbing his coat and leaving again.

The last thing he heard as he shut the door was, "No, ma'am. I won't do that again."

Back in the lobby, Peter pulled out his phone and called Elizabeth. "Hon, I think my flight back to New York will be delayed again."

"I thought the storm in Chicago was nearly over."

"It's not the weather this time. There's another case, here in St. Louis."

"And they need a New York based agent to investigate?"

"That was my reaction, at first. But it involves an alternate rock band, and the music industry had tentacles everywhere. I promise you, if it turns out to be something that will take more than a couple days, I'll turn it over to the Chicago office. I'm going to be back home Monday at the latest, no matter what it takes."

Elizabeth laughed. "I didn't think you even knew what alternate rock was."

"Working with Neal seems to be broadening my horizons. Have you heard of a group called Local Devastation?"

"Yeah, they were huge. Then, shortly before we met, 1 of their members was in a major car accident and they had to cancel the remainder of their tour. I remember it was in the news that he'd been high, and pleaded down the charges by agreeing to go to rehab."

"I wonder if someone else was in that accident, someone who might want revenge now."

"Revenge? Peter, this doesn't sound like white collar crime. Tell me you're not getting into something dangerous."

"The biggest danger facing me tonight is carpal tunnel as I keep searching for information about this band. Were they any good?"

"They got a lot of accolades. I'm not an expert, but I liked their music."

"What about Coldplay?"

"Yes, I like them, too. They're getting more recognition. In a few years, even you will have heard of them."

"And Muse?"

"I don't know them, but if you're comparing them Local Devastation, I'm going to look them up. So you've spent all day immersed in the music industry?"

"Actually…" Peter paused. He'd signed an agreement not to tell _anyone_ that Neal had been in WITSEC. He needed to think about he could tell Elizabeth. "I did get time off to visit an incredible Italian restaurant. I wish you could have been there."

"Me, too. Tell you what. Monday night I'll make a lasagna and we'll remember our first date."

"I'd rather remember our first overnight date."

"We had Italian then, too. I think I still have the dress I wore that night."

"What was that red thing you wore underneath it? It drove me nuts."

"A corset. I still have that, too."

"I could have sworn I tore it trying to get take it off of you."

"Mm-hmm. I had it repaired. Now hurry up and solve your little music case."

And after that, Peter welcomed the chance to cool down on the cold, rainy walk to get coffee.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: A Case of Cold Feet**

**St. Louis hotel room. Friday night. Early December, 2003. **

Neal was still on the phone when Peter returned with 2 cups of coffee. This time he made plenty of noise as he entered the room.

"I swear I had it in my hands," Neal told the person on the phone. "A brand new, original Michael Darling song… Yes, I'm sure it was his. It was his style, and even better, he was standing right there and told me it was his… No way am I singing it for you. It's bad enough he walked in on me playing it. Anyway, I don't trust you not to plagiarize it." Neal took the cup Peter handed him. "You're sure about the concert? I'm with the Feds now. You lie to me and there could be consequences."

"No!" Peter stage whispered. "We don't threaten people." When Neal raised a brow in a sign of disbelief, Peter said, "_You_ don't threaten people. Not without authorization."

"Thanks, Shawn… No, I don't owe you one. After what you did in Vegas, you owe me a lot more than a tip."

"What happened in Vegas?" Peter asked when Neal hung up.

"I think that needs to stay in Vegas."

"Even after I brought you coffee?"

"When I have immunity, ask me about the first time I was arrested."

"Arrested? We don't have any record of your being arrested."

Neal gave his most mischievous smile. "Enjoy the mystery. The important thing is, I know why the band members went to New York. They've agreed to a one-time reunion concert next summer. It's part of a benefit, with the proceeds going to a drug rehab program. It also coincides with the release of Ty Merchant's first solo album. The publicity from their concert should be great for its sales. As long as Michael goes through with the concert, Ty should be happy with him."

"Do you think he's threatening to pull out of it?"

Neal shook his head. "It's unlikely. Michael's few public statements since leaving Local Devastation have all been strongly anti-drug use. He should be the band member most in support of the concert."

"Did you learn anything else from your contacts?"

"I don't see much of a motive for Theo. He's in debt because he's starting his own recording studio. Miranda says he has a solid business plan and she expects him to do well. She also said he loved recording songs, but hated concerts. If someone tried to bring the band back together again for a tour, he wouldn't join them. There doesn't seem to be anything he would want from Michael."

"That leaves Trevor. And do you know if anyone was injured in the accident that sent Michael to rehab?"

"That's an interesting angle. We should look into Professor Evan Bell, too. Michael mentioned filling in for him while he 'gets back on his feet.' What if someone hurt Bell to intimidate Michael?"

"What if Bell feels threatened by Michael, and wants to scare him away rather than be replaced by him?" Peter asked.

"Another interesting angle. Let's see what we can find."

This time Peter let Neal run the searches, talking him through how the FBI systems worked. They didn't find much of interest about Trevor, other than the fact he got divorced after the band split up. He might blame Michael for that. Oddly, they couldn't find any record of Professor Bell being in an accident or suffering a major injury. Peter was going to mention how suspicious he found that when he noticed Neal rubbing his eyes. "You ok?"

"Getting a little blurry. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked."

"Well, it's midnight anyway. That was your deadline. Get some sleep."

Neal glanced at the clock in the corner of the laptop. "You're still set to Eastern time. It's 11 here."

"But we're part of an east-coast unit of the FBI, looking into a case that's supposed to have New York ties. We're working on Eastern time."

Neal stared at him a moment. "You have got to be kidding me."

Peter sighed. "Let me spell this out for you. Two days ago you were seriously sick, running a fever and even losing consciousness for a while. You're doing better now, but you're not 100% recovered. You don't need glasses; you need rest. I don't know what you're used to, but I don't work my team until they drop. That means it's midnight for you."

"I get another hour in the morning," Neal insisted.

"Fine. Get a full 8 hours of sleep, and you can have an hour of research time in the morning."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

As much as it annoyed Neal to be ordered to bed as if he were a child, he had to admit that Peter had been right about not operating at 100%. He did feel much better in the morning.

He could see more clearly, not just with his eyes, but also in his mind. The FBI's data had been helpful, Neal had to admit that. A complex con or heist often required research, and access to data was valuable. But he thrived on the people element. Getting to know people, what they wanted, and what they would do to get what they wanted. A con artist used that information to manipulate people. For the FBI, he would probably use it to disentangle the motives behind a crime.

And he had other skills the FBI wanted. The skills that enabled him to plan and get away with thefts and forgeries. They would ask him to reference his own skills to tell them how the culprit got away with a crime. How would they feel about the proposition of committing a crime to solve a crime? Because with only an hour left, that looked like his best option.

"Ready to start?" Peter asked, booting up the laptop.

"Thanks, but I'm spending my last hour at Concordia."

"Wait, you're going into the field?"

"Somehow, hanging out a college campus seems a little too mellow to be called 'going into the field.' It's no big deal, Peter. I'll be back in an hour."

"Your first lesson of the day is: Don't get complacent when you're investigating a crime. There are people out there who would die rather than be caught, and they don't mind taking you with them. When you're out of the office investigating a crime, you're in the field, even if you're visiting a playground. And you will take precautions, such as letting someone from the Bureau know where you are, and checking in regularly."

"Like I said. Going to Concordia. Back in an hour."

"A newbie doesn't go into the field alone. We're doing this together."

Neal refrained from rolling his eyes. "Fine."

"I'm driving," Peter added.

"Hold on. Let me call the seminary first and ask someone to pray for us."

"Very funny. I'm an excellent driver. I got top marks in evasive driving at Quantico."

"You do realize that under normal conditions you're not evading anyone, right?"

While Peter drove like he was in the Indianapolis 500, Neal reconsidered his original idea. Breaking into Michael's office and going through his files probably wasn't going to go over well. Fortunately, Neal's phone rang before they were halfway to the school, and Michael asked for a meeting with Neal's FBI contact.

"We're in the neighborhood. Give us a few minutes and we'll be there." When he ended the call, he told Peter, "Michael's at his office and he's ready to talk to us. That's how I want to use my last hour of research."

Michael's office was in the basement, down a labyrinth of small spaces set aside for non-tenured faculty. "Call me Michael," Michael Darling said when Neal performed introductions. "It gets a little awkward going by last names."

"Thanks," said Peter. "I wasn't looking forward to calling you Darling. And my wife might get jealous."

"Mine, too." Michael gestured toward the wedding photo on his desk. "Thank you both for coming here. I wasn't sure who to turn to, or if anyone would listen to a paranoid ex-drug addict. I was honestly afraid I'd be dismissed as delusional, and I was getting desperate."

"I could tell," Neal said.

"How? No one else in the room noticed anything."

"Some of them noticed you were nervous, but they thought it was because you were new to the role of choir director right before a concert. But given your background, I knew that shouldn't bother you. When being immersed in the music during rehearsal didn't erase your nerves, it was obvious you were seriously afraid of something." Neal forced himself to stop, aware he was in danger of rambling in front of a legendary musician.

"Tell us what's going on," Peter said.

"When I got out of rehab 5 years ago, I knew it wouldn't be easy staying clean. I decided I need to stay away from my old lifestyle, or I'd fall back into old habits. In fact, I didn't want to be involved in any kind of music performance, even choirs. My father had been a minister, and my first memories of music were from inside church. I returned to that, or maybe escaped to that, studying the theory of music and staying out of the limelight. I kept in touch with Ty, but really cut myself off from Local Devastation. A year later I married Tara, 3 years ago we had a baby girl, and life seemed very normal and predictable. Then a few months ago we got an offer to participate in a benefit concert, with proceeds going to drug rehabilitation clinics. It's a cause close to my heart, and I loved the idea of giving back in that way. And, frankly, I saw it as a chance to prove to myself that I am recovered and strong enough now that a few days as a rocker aren't going to push me back into my old ways."

"How did the other band members feel about doing the concert?" Peter asked.

"It's perfect for Ty. He's been recording a solo album, and needs to get his name out there. In fact, they pushed back the release of his first single by a month to get the boost the concert should bring. Theo's busy with his new recording studio. For him I think the concert is a distraction more than anything else. He really wasn't into the screaming fans bit. But he made a deal that we'll re-record and release one of our old hits through his studio as part of promotion for the concert. It gives him free advertising and immediate credibility, so he's going along with the concert performance as a necessary evil. And Trevor…" Michael shook his head. "There but for the grace of God… He's still into fame for fame's sake. He loves the idea of the concert."

"He's the only one who hasn't moved on," Neal noted. "The harsher critics say it's because he doesn't have the talent to stand on his own, and no other group will have him."

"It's true. He was only in Local Devastation because he was Ty's little brother, and the Merchant family looks out for each other. When he got the role of drummer, I had to dumb down that aspect of my songs for the performances, and we brought in other drummers to help with the recording sessions. As long as his name was out there as a band member, Trevor didn't care. He doesn't have a lot of pride. I'm sure Ty will involve him in some small way in his future albums, and Trevor will be happy to ride his coattails."

"When did things start to go south?" Peter asked.

"In November, a few weeks after we met in New York to discuss the concert, I got an email from Ty asking me to consider bringing the band back together again, permanently."

Neal was surprised. "Why would he want that?"

"He shouldn't. He doesn't. The solo career is what he wants, and he's poised for huge success. In fact, I responded back to the email asking if he was drunk. Then a few days later I got another email saying he's serious. He said he's having second thoughts about going solo and misses the old days. I didn't know what to think. He sounded so certain of his direction in New York, and so uncertain in the emails. Finally I called him one day between classes, to talk to him as a friend, thinking I'd help him get past a case of cold feet by telling him I believe in him. He said he didn't know anything about the emails. He told me that a few days before, he got locked out of his account. The password had changed and he couldn't reset it because the personal info for his account had also changed. He set up a new account and told me the address. I still got messages from the old account telling me he wants to get Local Devastation back together again, and messages from the new account telling me how excited he is about the solo career. And both sets of messages sound like him. This isn't some random hacker playing with a celebrity's account. Whoever it is knows Ty and myself very well."

"Any chance Ty is writing both sets of emails?" Peter asked.

"I considered if he might be joking around, or even unstable, but we had a long talk over Thanksgiving and he convinced me it isn't him." Michael nodded at Neal. "When you showed up yesterday and knew about my connection to Local Devastation, I thought this mystery person had finally arrived or sent someone to pretend to be a messenger from Ty."

"You believe the person sending the emails will escalate to personal contact?" Peter asked.

"In the last few days, the messages have become much more aggressive in their insistence that I really want to go back to being famous and going on tour. The focus changed from reuniting Local Devastation, to accusing me of wanting my own solo career. They say I'm jealous of Ty and should admit it, or else I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

"That's a significant change in tone," Neal said. "Can we see the messages?"

"Yes, I thought you would want to." Michael opened his laptop and logged into his personal email account. "Do you think you can trace them back to whoever's sending them?"

"We'll try," Peter said. "Did anything else change in your personal or professional life in the last few days?"

Michael stopped typing and slid the laptop over to Neal. "It was a week ago the department chair asked me to take over the choir from Professor Bell. That's really the only recent change."

"How does Professor Bell feel about that?" Peter asked.

"I don't think he cares at the moment. He has a severe case of Shingles and has been wracked with pain."

"Any conflict with the faculty about your background?" Peter asked, but Neal tuned out the conversation to focus on the emails. He compared the messages from Ty's old and new email accounts, and messages from other people in Michael's life. A pattern started to emerge. He grabbed a pen and sheet of paper, and made notes.

Eventually he looked up to see Peter and Michael staring at him. "What?"

"You want to share with the class?" Peter asked.

"Um. I have a theory, but it needs a some fine tuning first. Michael, it's been an absolute honor to meet you. I'll see you at rehearsal." Neal stood up.

"Will you tell me about your theory then?"

"I'm not sure. It depends on how long it takes the FBI IT folks to trace the emails. It's a weekend, after all, so they probably need a day or so to get back to us with confirmation of what I'm thinking. The thing is, I'm new to collaborating with the FBI. I'm sort of on probation while I prove myself. I don't want to get in trouble sharing some crazy, unsubstantiated theory that places suspicion on the wrong person. You understand, right?"

Michael nodded, while Peter looked incredulous.

"Great. Peter and I had breakfast plans. We'll get out of your way." Neal took a step toward the office door.

"Wait!" Michael stood. "There's another favor I need to ask. Can you get to the rehearsal early, say an hour before the choir?"

Neal shrugged. "I didn't have any other plans for this afternoon. But don't expect to get any unsupported theories out of me, just because I'm a major fan."

"It's not that. I need help with the choir. You see, they faltered in practice yesterday because I was playing piano. They're accustomed to Professor Bell standing in front and conducting. If I do that, I need someone else at piano, and their usual pianist has the flu." When Neal stood frozen in shock, Michael continued, "I heard you playing, remember? You're good. You picked up a new song quickly, and the carols aren't new. It's just a matter of learning the arrangements for songs I'm sure you've known for years."

"There's no way," Neal said.

"Please, Neal. I don't have a another choice. You wouldn't tell me why you were in the rehearsal yesterday, but I have to think it was part of a larger plan. Not only to help me personally, but also to help the choir. Why else would someone with your specific talents have arrived at our moment of need?"

"You think Neal is part of some Christmas miracle?" Peter asked.

"Tell me, Neal, whatever it is you wanted yesterday when you came to our choir room, could you have gone someplace else for it?"

"I had other options."

"Why did you choose us?"

"It… It felt right."

"You were called here," said Michael.

"No," insisted Peter. "That isn't a calling. That's random choice."

"Really? Do you know what would have happened if Neal hadn't been here yesterday to tell me he could help me? I was considering packing up and running away. Leaving my wife and daughter so they wouldn't be around me when some maniac is trying to get into my head."

"Just because it's fortuitous doesn't make it any less random," Peter countered.

"Just because it's random, doesn't make it any less miraculous," Michael responded. "If anything, it's even more impressive."

"Listen," interrupted Neal. "I can't play the piano in your place, man. You're like my musical idol."

Michael laughed. "They teach us here the danger of idols, Neal. We're all human. Anyone you idolize is destined to disappoint you, and treating someone as an idol puts that person under pressure to be perfect. That's a pressure no one can handle for long. Instead of idolizing me, work with me. The best way to show your respect is to help me meet my goals, and to let me help you finesse your keyboard skills."

With a shaky sigh, Neal said, "Ok. I'll see you an hour before rehearsal." As he followed Peter out of the office, Neal turned around. "Michael, have you told your wife about these emails?"

"No, I didn't want to worry her."

"As one married man to another," said Peter, "tell her. She deserves to know. And she might have noticed something you missed. Give us a call if she thinks of something."

"I'll do that. Thanks, again, for everything."

As he followed Neal out of the building, Peter said, "You think it's the wife."

"She's Ty Merchant's sister. She could have had access to gain his original password. She would know him well enough to impersonate him in email."

"When he tells her the FBI is closing in, she might confess. Or she might run."

"She might," Neal agreed, "but I don't think she will. She's doing this because she wants something from Michael. I can't be sure if she wants him to go back to his old lifestyle for the fame and fortune, or if she wants assurance that he isn't tempted by it. But whatever her goal, she wants to be part of it with him."

The car beeped as Peter hit the remote to unlock it. "You ready for breakfast, Miracle Man?"

"Sure thing, Rain Man."

"Rain Man?"

"'I'm an excellent driver,'" Neal quoted.

"I'm not Dustin Hoffman. Get in the car."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Just in Case**

**St. Louis church. Saturday afternoon. Early December, 2003. **

Peter had dropped Neal off for the Christmas concert rehearsal, and returned to the hotel room to continue working the Michael Darling case. Having heard Neal's conclusions and read his notes, Peter agreed that Michael's wife Tara was the most likely culprit, but he needed to be certain before taking any action.

At 3pm Peter returned to the church parking lot. Members of several choirs were streaming out of the building and into their cars, but there was no sign of Neal. After 10 minutes of waiting, Peter went inside the church to find his missing consultant.

The choirs had exited through a side door, which led to a series of classrooms and a choir rehearsal room, all empty. Next Peter found an office, a kitchen and reception hall, where a few church members were tidying up. It looked like they had served coffee and cookies to the choirs. At last he came upon what looked like a nursery, but equipped with a monitor. This was the cry room, where parents took fussy children so their crying wouldn't disrupt a sermon. The monitor let parents follow the church service while quieting their children.

Focused on the front of the worship area, the monitor showed Neal sitting at a piano and Michael standing next to him saying, "Slow it down. Think less Local Devastation and more Frank Sinatra. Picture a peaceful Christmas Day, when you have all the time in the world and you want the song to last. It's not always a race to the finish line."

Neal gave a passage a leisurely run through. "Sinatra, huh?"

"That's right. Remember, rock will get your blood racing, but a smooth crooner will win the girls' hearts. Old Blue Eyes knew what he was doing. Now for the bridge, try this." Michael demonstrated what he wanted and Neal repeated it. "That's right. Take it back from the last bars of the verse, and let me hear the transition." And Neal played enough now that Peter could recognize the song, but he wasn't interested in the music. There was a woman in the cry room, wearing those gloves people use for serious household cleaning. She held a disinfectant and rags, and it looked like she had cleaned about half the room, but was currently transfixed by the monitor.

A woman in her mid-to-late forties, blond hair with a hint of gray. Probably too old to be Michael Darling's wife or a groupie. Remembering the photo the Marshals had given Neal of a blond woman they described as "functioning as your mother," Peter thought he'd solved the mystery of why Neal was infiltrating a Christmas concert in St. Louis. This had to be the woman Neal had called Wednesday night, taking the risk that the U.S. Marshals would track him down, which in fact they had, showing up at their hotel room the next morning.

"A fan of Local Devastation?" Peter asked.

The woman spun around. "I'm sorry?"

"You're watching Michael Darling. He was the creative genius behind the group Local Devastation. And now he's leading the Concordia choir for their performance here."

"That must be why he seemed familiar. My nephew loved that group. He played their songs so many times I could probably sing them myself." She removed her gloves and shook Peter's hand. "Ellen Parker. I'm a member here. Can I help you?"

"It's that obvious I don't belong?"

Indicating Peter's suit, Ellen said, "You're not exactly dressed for the clean-up crew."

"True. I'm here for Neal Caffrey. But it looks like he's still busy with Michael."

"I've been listening to Neal. He's talented."

"Probably all those years of piano lessons he took," Peter said, taking a guess.

"Yes. At least, that was the case with my nephew."

"So when you say he played their songs, you mean actually playing them on the piano, rather than the radio."

"Both. He even started learning the guitar so he could play that part. His mother and I were grateful he didn't try drums, too."

"I can imagine. Sounds like he was a bright kid."

"Very. But I suppose I'm biased. The thing to remember about a bright kid is, he can be a handful when he's bored. You have to keep challenging him, or he'll start challenging you."

"I take it you very close. For an aunt."

Ellen studied him carefully, and Peter could definitely picture her as a cop assessing a suspect. Or a mom protecting her child. "I don't think I caught your name. Why don't you start with who you are and why you're so interested in my nephew."

"Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI." Peter showed his badge. "I'm asking because your nephew reminds me of Neal, and Neal is… I don't even know how to describe him. He'll be working for me at the Bureau, but he's more than an employee. A few days ago he introduced me as his stepfather. It was sort of a joke, sort of not. I've come to realize he doesn't remember his actual dad, and I'm honored that at some level he thinks of me as a substitute father figure." Hoping to win Ellen over, he held his breath a moment and dove deep into his concerns about what the future might bring. This was delving into a world of feelings he didn't normally like to express. He thought El would be proud. "But it's a tricky relationship to navigate. I'm starting to feel some of the responsibilities of a father, but at the same time, I'm supposed to be a boss. I suppose it's something like a close aunt would experience – feeling like a mother, but having to stay in other roles. How did _you_ manage that? With your nephew, I mean."

"I can't say I was a role model. My nephew drowned when he was barely 18, and I've always felt somewhat to blame for what happened. Maybe if I'd handled things better, handled him better, he would have stayed home instead of being out, driving too fast on a stormy night. He went out that night to be alone because he felt betrayed, hurt by the people he loved best, and that hurt bypassed all reason. He was bright, but reckless when driven by that kind of emotion." Ellen turned to the monitor. "It looks like they're done."

Peter saw they were putting away the sheet music. He was about to head into the sanctuary to get Neal when he heard Michael say, "You're better than you think. If you kept working at it, you could make a living as a musician."

"I'm flattered," Neal answered. "But I don't think I'm ever going to be the next Ty Merchant."

"No, but I could see Ty hiring you. Especially if I gave you a recommendation."

"You're serious. Wow." Neal seemed lost in thought for a moment. "Thanks, but I can't."

"Why not? I can tell you love music."

"I do, but it's an escape, not a permanent destination."

"Not your calling. I get it," Michael said. "Keep it in mind, though, just in case you need a fallback plan someday. But I have to ask, since you've been so mysterious about why you crashed my choir practice, what is your calling?"

"As a kid, I thought it was being a cop. I was going to solve the mystery of the week like they do on TV and bring down the bad guys. When I got older, the line between good guys and bad guys blurred, and I went into more of a gray area. Dark gray, and I could easily imagine it getting darker. This week one of the good guys offered me a new version of my old dreams. You don't get a second chance like that very often. It might be a long shot, but I have to try it."

"That's why you could call on the FBI to help me?"

"Yeah, that's where Peter comes in. He's trying to drag me across that line, back from the dark side into the light."

"Well, if it means you'll be helping other people the way you're helping me, I'll volunteer to help drag you into the light."

Neal laughed. "He might need that help. Because I have to confess, I have always wanted to play with one of those," he gestured toward the pipe organ. "As a kid I tried once, and barely got started before someone literally did drag me away. I'll bet you know how to work one of these."

"I do. How badly did it go that first time?"

"You know how they say, 'make a joyful noise'? Well, this was a sad, awful noise. I never did figure out what I did wrong."

Ellen moaned. "Please, stop him. Some things should never be repeated."

"Right." Peter strode into the sanctuary, calling out, "Neal! It's time to go." As he started hustling Neal back down the aisle, Neal protested that there was a shortcut in a different direction, but Peter said, "Trust me," and paused at the entrance of the cry room. "Neal Caffrey, I'd like you to meet Ellen Parker. She's a member here and was kind enough to chat with me while you were wrapping up. Since you grew up around here, I thought you might have known her nephew. I'm sorry, Ellen, I don't think I caught his name."

"Danny," she breathed. "Danny Brooks." She held out her hands to Neal, who took them.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Ellen. I remember Danny. He thought the world of you." He slowly let go of her hands.

"Not so much at the end," she said.

"Don't say that. He was grateful. It just took a while to take it all in. I… I never heard what happened to him."

"After they found his car in the lake, they looked but never found a body. But it was obvious what had happened. We held the funeral here."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

After watching them stare poignantly at each other for a minute, Peter stepped in. "We'll be back tomorrow, for the concert."

"Right." Ellen stepped back. "Speaking of which, I should finish cleaning up around here." She picked up her gloves and gave every appearance of being absorbed in pulling them on. But as the men reached the doorway she said, "Neal. I remember your mother. I probably remember the Caffreys better than you do."

"I don't want –" Neal started to protest.

"About once a month she would invite more family and friends than you would think could possibly fit in that place your parents rented. She'd make a gourmet feast, singing the whole time, usually in the language that went with the cuisine. She had a lovely singing voice."

Neal looked surprised. "I think I remember her singing in the kitchen."

"I'm glad. Music was a big deal on her side of the family. I don't think any of them could pass up a piano without playing a song, or listen to the radio without singing. And your friend in there is right about Sinatra. Your grandmother adored Old Blue Eyes. Whenever she heard one of his songs, she'd insist on dancing with someone. I'll bet she twirled you around to Rat Pack tunes before you could even walk."

"Thank you for telling me."

There may have been a glistening of tears in everyone's eyes, which was more than Peter could handle. "C'mon. We have work to do."

"In case I don't see you before I leave town, Merry Christmas," Neal said.

"Merry Christmas, Neal."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal was gone, Ellen reached up to stop the recording. The monitoring equipment wasn't only used for broadcasting services into the cry room. It was also used to record services, with copies made for members who were home-bound or in care facilities. Ellen had activated the recording mechanism as soon as she noticed Neal at the piano.

The company Ellen worked for had installed the church's security, plus this system. She wouldn't need any help making a copy of the recording to take home with her. This was the best Christmas present she had gotten in 6 years.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: The Case of the Magi**

**St. Louis hotel room. Sunday afternoon, December 7, 2003**

_A/N: With December 7 mentioned in the series recently as an "anniversary" for Peter and Neal, I decided to use that as the date they closed their first case together._

When the email arrived from the FBI at 2pm, Neal was on a coffee run. Peter called Michael Darling to let him know they had information to discuss with him. And as soon as Neal returned, Peter shared what the techs had found.

"I told you so," said Neal. "I knew it was Michael's wife pretending to be Ty."

"No, you didn't know it," Peter countered. "You deduced it. Our FBI tech team proved it. They found the evidence that the threatening emails came from her, they get the credit."

"But that's not fair. We solved it."

"Welcome to the Bureau, where evidence is our currency. Everyone has a very low credit rating when they start, and you'll have to provide overwhelming evidence to get credit for a win, especially the first time. Otherwise, you just get mentioned for an assist. But there's no shame in being part of a team effort. We're in this to stop bad guys, not for personal glory."

"Tara Darling doesn't seem like a bad guy. I almost wish we hadn't solved it. Do we have to arrest her?"

"There doesn't have to be an arrest to close a case. In something like this, it depends on whether Michael wants to press charges. Let's go. I arranged to meet at his house." Peter picked up his badge and gun.

"Wait, you're taking your gun? But they have a 3-year-old child."

"Michael said she's with her grandparents this afternoon. Anyway, I take my gun virtually everywhere."

"Will you expect me to carry one? As a consultant?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. Do you want one?"

"God, no."

"You may want to think that over. I get the impression you'll want to spend more time in the field than in the office. Sometimes you may want to a weapon to protect yourself."

"I'm really not a gun guy."

Not wanting to be late, Peter led the way out to the car, but he couldn't let the subject drop. Once they were on the highway he said, "Usually when someone is that adamant about disliking guns, they've had an experience with someone being shot."

"You learn that at Quantico?"

"Yeah, I did. But it's common sense. You spend time enough around crimes and criminals, chances are you'll witness some violence. Less so in white collar crimes, but it still happens. I've been shot at, and had to shoot a suspect once before he could kill an agent. What about you?"

"Are you asking for a preview to my confession?"

"That's one of the things I'm asking. If you've killed someone, even accidentally, that would be deal breaker for immunity."

"That's not going to be an issue."

"Good."

Peter waited for Neal's curiosity to get the best of him. Finally Neal asked, "What's the other reason you were asking?"

Peter maintained a poker face, but he would smile over this later. He deserved to bask in the pride of learning how to anticipate Neal. "When an agent is shot or shoots someone, there are mandated sessions with a therapist. I'm wondering if you need to talk to a someone before we place you on active duty."

"That won't be necessary."

"So you haven't witnessed a shooting or other violent acts?"

"I'm fine, Peter. I don't need a therapist."

Peter took the exit to the Darlings' neighborhood. "Well, if you ever need one, they're available. There's no charge."

"I'll keep that in mind." Neal closed his eyes and clutched the arm rest as Peter took a particularly sharp right turn. "Did Mario Andretti teach that driving course at Quantico?"

"My driving aggressively seems to make you nervous. I wonder if that's because you lost control of your car as a teen and drowned in that lake."

"Don't try to psychoanalyze me, Peter."

"I wouldn't dream of it." But Peter made a mental note of an idea for dealing with his father-in-law, the psychiatrist. If he could distract him with analyzing the FBI's new consultant, it wouldn't feel like Alan was constantly trying to peer into his own brain. Maybe Christmas with the Mitchells wouldn't be full of painful, awkward silences this year.

"I think Michael knows it's Tara," Neal said as Peter parked in front of the house. "He doesn't want to believe it, and he wants a 3rd party to make the accusation. But he's a smart guy, and it's the obvious answer."

Something similar had crossed Peter's mind, but he had to say, "People can be blind to the faults of the ones we love." He stopped the engine and reached to open his car door, but then paused. Neal was curiously still, staring out through the windshield but seeming lost in his head.

"Yeah," Neal said after a minute. Then he got out of the car.

Peter was itching to ask if Neal had experienced a revelation, or even a moment of doubt, about Kate Moreau, who was believed to be Neal's girlfriend. His gut told him this woman could jeopardize the deal he was setting up between Neal and the Bureau. How was Neal going to stay on the straight-and-narrow if he kept dating another criminal?

Later, Peter promised himself as he followed Neal to the front door. He needed to think this through, and tread carefully where Kate was concerned. Keeping Ellen's advice in mind, Peter guessed that Neal wasn't going to react well to criticism of someone he loved.

Michael led them to the kitchen and introduced them to Tara. Peter had barely started talking when she interrupted him. "It's me. I did it. I'm so sorry, Michael, I never meant for it to turn into this. It was just going to be a few messages to see if you regretted giving up that old life. But your responses were all focused on advising Ty and telling him how great his solo career would be and you never answered the question of what you wanted. And –"

Michael took her hands. "I was afraid of this. I knew it could have been you, but I was afraid of what that meant, so I kept convincing myself it had to be an obsessed stranger. I thought you were happy with our life here. Or I wanted to believe that you were happy. Are you tired of it? I can't reunite Local Devastation. That's over. But if you want me to try a solo career of my own, that's still possible. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you happy."

"You always said you couldn't go back to performing. That you had to stay away or be sucked back into the whole lifestyle. I thought you were fine that, and then suddenly you're agreeing to perform again. First the benefit concert, but that was at least months in the future. Then next thing I know you were dragged into this choir thing. If that's where you're going, then I want to know. I want to go with you, wherever you need to be. I'm happy here, but not if it means holding you back from what you love doing."

"No, Tara it isn't like that at all. I wanted to prove to you that I'm recovered, that you don't have to worry about me relapsing into drugs again. I should have told you why I was doing it. If I'd had any idea you were worried like this, I'd never have agreed to the benefit concert in the first place."

It wasn't easy to interrupt the couple, who were practically talking over each other to express all of their fears and reassurances. Peter finally managed to get a confirmation from Michael that he didn't want to press charges, and then escaped before the overwhelming sweetness of it all became unbearable.

"That's it," he told Neal when they were in the car. "When we're back at the hotel I'll show you the report we file to wrap this up, and then it's done. We've closed our first case together, and you don't even work for the FBI yet. How does it feel?"

"Surprisingly good," Neal said. "It's like the _Gift of the Magi_. I always loved that story."

"Are you kidding?" Peter asked as he navigated back to the highway. "I hate that story. Two love-sick idiots give each other useless gifts because they're busy showing off who can make the biggest sacrifice."

"It's beautiful, Peter. Giving up what you prize most for someone, that's love in its purest form. It's like… You love your job, right? Being an FBI agent is what gets you out of bed in the morning, and racing out the door into New York traffic each day."

"Have you been following me?"

"Peter, I'm hypothesizing here. You treasure your job, don't you? It's part of your identity, even. I can't actually picture you as anything other than an FBI agent, it's that core to who you are."

"Yes, fine. My job is important to me. So what?"

"So, if you had to pick between the job and Elizabeth, which would you pick?"

"El, of course."

"And how is that different from the _Gift of the Magi_?"

"It's different because I'd talk to her about it, first. And I'd try to find another option. Some way to keep both, and I'd do it with El's help, because she's smart and knows how much my job means to me."

"So you don't want to give up your job for her."

"Of course I don't. The whole point is that it's something I want to keep, or it wasn't really a sacrifice. Listen, I know what love is. I love my wife."

"I never said you didn't."

"Damn it, what I'm trying to say is … I hate these conversations, I really do, but I want to make sure you don't decide to make some stupid grand gesture like turning down the FBI's offer because someone demands it as proof of your love or friendship. Love is more than a willingness to sacrifice for someone. If it's healthy, love is a partnership, where you talk to each other, and share your issues and work them out together. You don't rush into something alone and say 'Look what I did for your sake' when you're done. You face things together and ask 'What can _we_ do?' and then if there are sacrifices that need to be made, you make those together and they make sense, and your partnership grows stronger through the experience."

"You make it sound like it's all black-or-white. It's not always that easy."

"It is if you don't overcomplicate things." They had reached the hotel, and were moments away from the valet opening Peter's door. "Just think about it."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal realized he seemed subdued as they filed the report, got dinner, and then went to the Christmas concert. He couldn't stop thinking about what Peter had said. He understood it in theory, but it didn't really fit with Neal's experience. Playing the piano for the Concordia choir was a relief, because it forced him to concentrate on something else.

Ellen had left the pager as promised, wrapped up like a Christmas gift. The long, wide arms of Neal's choir robe made it child's play to lift the box and pocket it. No one suspected a thing. In the crush of people departing and saying goodbyes, it was easy to sweep in and hug Ellen, but there wasn't a chance to talk. Too many people here would notice if someone who looked exactly like her dead nephew hung around talking to her. But he had seen her chatting with Peter again before the concert, and hoped Peter would tell him what she'd said.

Carrying a stack of choir robes back to Michael's car, Neal let his mind wander back to Kate. He loved her. He was sure of it. Although romantic love was different from parental love, there was an unconditional aspect that should be part of any category of love. He felt that for both Kate and Ellen.

Talking to Ellen yesterday reminded him what it felt like to be the recipient of unconditional love. It had been a long time since he'd experienced that. And it made him wonder if maybe what Kate felt for him wasn't as unconditional as what he felt for her. Was it possible that she loved what he could give her or do for her, more than she loved him? He didn't want to go there, hated that he'd even opened the door to that doubt. He slammed it shut, although he acknowledged he would have to open it again eventually to resolve that doubt.

Neal placed the robes in the trunk and was already on his way back to the building when Michael grabbed his arm and asked, "Will you be coming back to Concordia?"

"No, I got what I came here for. I'll catch the red-eye back to New York in the morning."

"I didn't get a chance to thank you this afternoon. Tara's been calling you Clarence, our Christmas angel."

"Like _It's a Wonderful Life_?"

"Right. You helped us agree to appreciate what we have instead of dwelling on what might have been. That's a great gift."

"I'm not an angel, Michael."

"Well, the original word for angel means _messenger_. You did a fine job of making sure we received the message we needed to hear today. And now I have a message for you. I'm staying here, in my current job, but I'm branching out a little to give my daughter a college fund. I've been composing in my spare time but never did anything with the songs. I've talked it over with Tara and Ty, and I've agreed to write some songs for Ty's second album." He pulled a manila envelope out of the trunk of his car and handed it to Neal. "This is one I'd already written that I think will suit his voice. I'll be back in New York in about 2 months. I'd like to get in touch, hear what you think of the song, where it needs work. If I can get you to stop by Theo's studio, we could even play through it together with Ty to see how it works."

Neal stared at the envelope in disbelief.

"Maybe it's the teacher in me, but I'd really like to make sure you stay in practice. Are you interested?"

"Yeah. But, I'm worried I'm hallucinating. This is like something I would have fantasized when I was 17."

"Think of it as getting a matched set of dreams. First a chance at your dream job, and with it a shot at a dream hobby. Now I need to find Tara and go pick up our daughter before my parents spoil her. Have a Merry Christmas, Neal."

"Merry Christmas."

_A/N: A couple of chapters left to get Neal and Peter back in New York and ready for their own holiday break. Expect to see those posted a day or two after Christmas._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: A Case of Immunity**

**St. Louis. Monday morning, December 8, 2003**

Extremely early in the morning, Peter slammed on the brakes on the way to the airport when the car in front of him abruptly slowed down.

"When we get back to New York, I'm doing the driving," Neal said.

"I didn't know you owned a car."

"I don't."

"Well, I'm not letting someone who landed his own car in a lake drive _my_ car. When you get a car, then we'll talk about who drives."

"You really need to let go of the whole car in the lake thing, especially since you think I'm still traumatized by it. Anyway, I can always get a car. I could steal one."

"No."

"I'll bet you wouldn't want to drive a stolen vehicle. That would probably look bad."

"There will be no car stealing."

"Did you know an Aston Martin used in one of the James Bond films in the mid-60's was stolen in Florida in 1997 and never recovered? I would love to drive a Bond car."

"You know…" Peter stopped himself from revealing that Neal's code name in the FBI case files had been James Bonds, derived from his bond forgeries. He'd be insufferable if he knew about that. "Is that theft something I'm going to hear about when we trade your confession for immunity?"

"No, but I'll help the Bureau solve the case if I get to drive the car after I find it."

"That's not how things work at the FBI. We don't play with the evidence once it's recovered."

"Maybe you should try it. See if it helps increase recovery rates. I'm sure it would improve morale. FBI agents always look depressed."

"We look intimidating."

"Keep telling yourself that."

When Peter checked in at the airport, he found his ticket had mysteriously been upgraded to first class for the Chicago to New York leg of the flight. "Did you do this?" he asked Neal.

The only answer was an attempted angelic look followed by, "Merry Christmas, Peter."

Peter wasn't entirely surprised that he lost track of Neal between the ticketing desk and the security line. As far as Peter could tell, Neal didn't have his real ID with him, and probably didn't want to travel under an assumed identity with an FBI agent. On the one hand, Peter was unhappy that Neal was probably committing a crime, but on the other hand, Peter was the one who had insisted the immunity deal meeting occur Monday afternoon in New York City, which he now realized didn't give Neal much of a window to get there legally.

He'd try to be more mindful of that in the future, and avoid putting Neal into a no-win position again.

But the more he thought about it, the more annoyed he got that Neal had defaulted to breaking the law. He could have explained the issue and asked for a delay in the meeting, or requested assistance in getting back to New York legally. Peter couldn't let Neal get into the habit of taking the law into his own hands, and especially didn't want to start a precedent of letting Neal get away with it. Minutes before his flight boarded, Peter placed a call to Jones.

At 2pm, Peter walked into an interrogation room where a sullen, handcuffed Neal had been waiting for nearly an hour. "You put out a warrant for my arrest!" he said the moment he saw Peter. "What happened to immunity?"

"We offered immunity on the condition that you stop committing crimes. And yet, mere days later, you traveled to New York under a false identity. The U.S. Government takes that very seriously. That's a felony, Neal. Did you think I was simply going to turn a blind eye?"

"But you knew! You knew I was traveling under a false name when you told me to get back here by this afternoon. You put me in that position. What else was I gonna do?"

"You ask for help. That's what we do in the FBI when one of us can't find a workable, legal solution to a problem."

"I'm not in the FBI yet."

"Or ever, after this stunt."

"Peter!" Peter almost winced at the pained shock in Neal's eyes. "You said you'd do whatever you could to make this work. I… I trusted you."

Peter sat down across from Neal. "What I can do has limits. You said you can't imagine me as anything other than an FBI agent. Well, neither can I. I stand for the law, and I can't let you break it. You have to understand the consequences and be willing to face them." He unlocked the cuffs. "I need you to remember this, Neal, the next time you're tempted to circumvent the law, the next time it's easier to cross the line rather than admit you need help. I need it embedded in your mind, how it felt to think the deal was off, and that you were going to prison. Because as soon as you sign that deal with us, there won't be any second chances."

Neal rubbed his wrists. "Did you see _The Hunt for Red October_? Because there's a line that comes to mind right now: Next time, send a goddamn memo."

"Well, I wanted an FBI arrest on your record anyway, for undercover work. In case you need to convince the criminal element that you aren't on good terms with the Bureau. You forced me to turn it into a surprise party. It was a two birds, one stone kind of thing. Now we're going to bring in the immunity paperwork and record your confession."

"Don't I get a break after your little experiment in teaching through trauma?"

"Nope. You already told me you have a flight instinct, and what you've been through this afternoon has to be pushing that button. We're going to get through this, and then it will be all over with no more incentive to run."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

With a document signed by Peter's boss stating that Neal had immunity for any crimes confessed that afternoon, Neal stepped Peter and an agent called Jones through a litany of crimes. He found it interesting to learn which crimes they didn't know about, and which ones he was suspected of but didn't commit. For some of those he was able to point them toward the actual perpetrator. He didn't name Mozzie, Kate or Shawn, and glossed over a couple of things he'd done with Alex. If they didn't know Alex was a woman, that might give her an edge. He told them about Keller, and his concerns the man was getting more violent.

At the back of his mind, Neal was aware that this session could have gone much differently. It was hard to believe that only this morning he'd been joking with Peter on the way to the St. Louis airport. If the day had gone as he'd expected, this recitation of crimes would have been much different. He'd probably be smug, proud of his accomplishments, and identifying with every vain movie villain who couldn't resist an opportunity to brag. He would probably have emphasized some of his mistakes, to make Peter laugh. He'd be paying more attention to this Jones guy, to see what made him smile or frown disapprovingly.

But maybe this was for the best. Peter probably wouldn't have appreciated making a joke out of his crimes. Peter took this stuff seriously.

In some instances Neal told them where stolen property was hidden, or who had purchased it. But many things had been fenced, the money spent and he had no idea who had purchased the items from the fences. The FBI might have pushed him more on that, but things took a turn when Peter said, "There's a gap in this timeline. Are you telling me you didn't commit any crimes this spring?"

"I was trying to. I was working on a long con that involved working for Vincent Adler."

Mention of Adler brought a frenzy of activity. Neal was taken to a conference room, where half a dozen agents pelted him with questions about the missing billionaire's activities and whereabouts. That went on for nearly an hour before they were satisfied he couldn't provide any more information on the Adler case.

They left him alone in the room for a few minutes, and Peter returned with a file containing the birth certificate and background the U.S. Marshals had provided. Neal smiled for the first time that afternoon when he saw he'd spent his teens at a boarding school in Paris while his widowed mother worked for Interpol. That certainly gave him an excuse for not providing many details about his mom, and a reasonable explanation for being multi-lingual, well traveled, and a bit of a snob about food and wine. He couldn't have asked for better.

While he was reading the background, Jones had pulled Peter out of the conference room. Then Peter returned with a list of Neal's known aliases. Neal added a couple more, and withheld one he considered more of a pseudonym than an alias.

"What about Henry Winslow?" Peter asked.

"Oh, that's not an alias, that's…" Neal blinked. "You know, this is the second time I've been arrested for impersonating him."

"Henry is a real person?"

"Yeah. He got into some trouble in Las Vegas, needed to avoid the authorities, and skipped town with my ID, leaving his own behind. I didn't know there was a warrant for his arrest, and I simply assumed his identity in return, thinking it was all a game. I had to convince the cops Henry had lifted my wallet and replaced it with his, and that I was an innocent victim."

"So you stole his identity?"

"Borrowed it. He knows I do that occasionally when I don't have time to create a new alias. He isn't going to press charges. He thinks it's funny." Neal noted Peter's look of surprise. "He has a strange sense of humor."

"But Friday night, when you mentioned being arrested in Vegas, you were talking to someone named Shawn. You said he was the one who owed you. And I can't help noticing that you didn't mention a Shawn in any of your statements today."

"You can assume Shawn is to blame for any trouble Henry got into. He's more a force of chaos than a criminal. Trust me, you don't want to waste your time on Shawn."

"I can let it go for now, but if a force for chaos reenters your life, I want a heads up. And no more impersonating Henry." Peter paused as Jones walked in. "Ok, Jones, you said there's a theory you want to test out? What is it?"

"I've got a few questions for Caffrey."

"Shoot," Peter invited.

"The thing is, if I'm right, it might not look so good for the Bureau. Hughes isn't going to be happy."

Peter sighed. "And yet here you are. It's important enough to you to take that risk, so let's get on with it."

Jones took the chair to Neal's left. "Before I get started, how long since you've eaten anything, Caffrey?"

"5, no 6am east coast time."

"That's about 12 hours ago," Jones said, pulling a granola bar out of his pocket. "I need you to eat this."

Neal took it in his right hand and studied the packaging. There was no sign of tampering. "It isn't drugged, is it?"

"Nah. Fresh out of the vending machine," Jones promised. He took it back and tore open the packaging. Pulling off a corner, he ate it himself. "Perfectly safe."

Neal took the bar back and ate it. It tasted like cardboard, but he thought he could use a pick-me-up. Jones seemed smart, and Neal was feeling slow right now. He drank some water and said, "Thanks." He glanced at Peter, who didn't give any sign of knowing where Jones was going with this, either.

"Have you signed the application to be a consultant yet?" When Neal shook his head, Jones slid over a sheet of paper and pointed to a line at the bottom of the page. "Sign here."

Neal grabbed a pen and started to sign. The paper slid on the slick table top, making him pause in his signature. He pulled the sheet back again and finished.

"Neal, what are you hiding?" Peter asked.

"Huh?" Neal really was feeling slow, distracted. He'd been running on adrenalin for a while, but the effects had faded.

"Your left hand. In all the time you've been in this room, you haven't moved it. Not to eat or drink or even to hold that piece of paper still. Jones, did we not search him when he was arrested? Are you trying to demonstrate that the Bureau missed some piece of contraband in his sleeve? I doubt he's carrying a weapon."

"You're getting warmer," said Jones. "Just one more question, Caffrey." He held up a bottle of ibuprofen, opened it and shook out a pill. "Will you roll up your left sleeve if I give you one of these?"

With a grimace, Neal held out his left hand for the pill, swallowed it, and rolled up his black sweater's left sleeve to reveal a reddened and swollen wrist. "I think it's a sprain," he said.

"Neal, why didn't you say something?" Peter asked.

"You wanted me to remember what it felt like to be arrested."

"You thought I knew you'd been hurt?"

"They're your team. You told them what to do."

Peter stood up to pace around the table. "You thought I told them to hurt you?"

"You wanted the memory embedded in my brain."

"I'm going to get some ice," Jones volunteered, making a quick exit.

"We don't hurt people. That's not how we operate here. This is going to be investigated, and if we find that an agent did this intentionally, he'll be disciplined. Don't ever assume I'm ok with anyone being hurt, or working hurt. Promise me, you'll – "

"I promise," Neal interrupted. He remembered this part. "I won't tell. I won't. Don't hurt her, please."

"What?"

"Won't tell anyone, won't show anyone. I'll be good, and you won't hurt my mom. I promise." Neal was panting now, not in pain but in fear. He felt hunted and there was nowhere to hide but inside his own head. He almost made it there, when a shock of cold brought him back. He focused to see a bag of ice on his wrist.

"Neal," said Peter, and Neal had the feeling Peter had been saying his name for a while now.

"Sorry."

"Don't… Don't apologize. I thought you didn't remember what happened to you when you were 9."

"I don't remember the worst part, when I was abducted. The earlier stuff is still there."

"'The worst part'?" Peter repeated. Then he swore for a while. Then he sat down and said, "Tell me about Henry Winslow. What did he do in Vegas that got him into trouble?"

"But he doesn't have anything to do with… with what I was remembering."

"I know. We need to get your mind going down a different track before I send you home. Tell me about Henry and Vegas."

Neal nodded. "Well, he _claims_ he slipped and crashed into a glass case at an exhibit of guitars played by Jimi Hendrix. And he was only playing it to make sure it hadn't been damaged. And he wasn't actually singing, but yelling for help." Being careful to leave out anything about Shawn, and to keep the story as lighthearted as possible, Neal could feel his mind sharpening, and the dark memories receded. He drew the story out and embellished, aware that Peter was looking for entertainment rather than facts. After wrapping up with an ending that was completely stolen from an Indiana Jones movie, Neal said, "Thanks."

"It takes about a week for the government to process all the paperwork for a new hire. Between now and then I'm going to make sure the team here is clear on how we handle suspects and consultants. I want to see you back here Monday morning, 8am sharp."

"I'll be here."

"You're going to speak up if you're placed under pressure to break the law in order to do your job, even if you believe the pressure is coming from me. And you're going to tell me if you're hurt or injured, accidentally or otherwise. Got that?"

"Yeah, I got it. And next time you need to teach me something, can you just _tell_ me first?"

_A/N: I envision this younger version of Peter as still inexperienced as a manager of a team, and therefore more apt to make mistakes, especially with Neal. But I also like to think these younger versions of Peter and Neal will find it easier to learn from each other, to have fun, and to trust each other over time. I'm hoping to create a gradual increase in trust, rather than the big swings of trust and distrust of the series. (Not that I'm complaining about the series. I get that putting our favorite characters in conflict and eventually resolving that conflict makes the relationships stronger, even as it twists their/our hearts in the process.) Next chapter will introduce June and her lovely mansion._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Moving Upstairs**

**New York, FBI White Collar Division. Monday morning, December 15, 2003**

At 7:30am, Peter moved into the glassed in office at the top of the stairs, looking down over the bull pen. He was setting a photo of El on his new desk when Reese Hughes walked in and congratulated him on the promotion.

"Thanks, but after what happened a week ago, I'm surprised you went through with it."

"Caffrey needs to know he can't break the law, Peter. You had the right idea, it was the execution that faltered. When you take extreme measures with your team, you have to be careful. It can indicate you've let things get personal."

"I did. And I can tell I've made Caffrey's job even more difficult as a result. By having my team arrest him, I've solidified the idea in their minds that he's a criminal first, and a consultant second."

"On the other hand, it means they'll be watching him carefully, and can let you know immediately if he's slipping up. By the way, what did you decide to do about Hitchum?"

"He says that injuring Caffrey was an accident, and he wasn't aware he'd done it. There's no evidence to prove otherwise, but my gut tells me Hitchum could be an issue. It also tells me that Jones has a lot of promise."

"That's good. You need to be aware of the strengths and weaknesses of your team. Keep an eye on Hitchum."

When Peter gathered his team in the conference room for the morning briefing, he made a point of giving Neal his consultant's badge in front of everyone. He also addressed the arrest. "I realize I didn't make it clear to the team that his arrest was intended to provide our consultant with a cover story for dealing with informants who won't cooperate with an FBI employee. It was my decision to surprise Caffrey with the arrest, to make it seem as realistic as possible to the witnesses. In retrospect, that was a poor decision on my part. We do sometimes arrest a team member working undercover to maintain their cover, but we go into undercover work prepared for that scenario. The order I gave last week wasn't respectful of a new team member, and Neal Caffrey is a member of this team. I expect you all to treat him as such. At the same time, you are aware of his somewhat checkered past. You should all know that I believe no one is above the law. Not our consultants, and not our agents. I want to make it clear that Caffrey's role on this team is not to make your lives easy or to keep your hands clean by having him circumvent the law for you. Last week, I mistakenly led Caffrey to believe that I wanted him to accomplish something by any means possible, legal or illegal. That was my mistake, and we all need to learn from it. No one is to order, pressure, or attempt to trick Caffrey into committing a crime. If anyone thinks there needs to be an exception that, bring it to me and we will look for a legal alternative. Are there any questions?"

Peter was aware that it would take more than words to convince the team to treat Neal like an equal. Working with Neal and getting a few wins with his help would make more difference than any speech.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Jones, the most computer-savvy of the team, spent the morning at Neal's desk helping him set up his accounts and walking him through the systems he'd use the most, including a particularly painful time-tracking system. "Joining so late in the year, you won't get any vacation days until 2004, but you'll log Christmas and the day after as holidays. We get a 4-day weekend this year."

Neal grinned. "I get holidays? That will be new."

"Yeah, that whole week will be slow. This place will almost be empty. I'm working, because I used most of my time off this summer, but Agent Burke will be gone. He's visiting his in-laws. Although I think he'd rather be working."

"Because he loves his job, or dreads the in-laws?"

"Some of both, is my take. Here's how you access your FBI email. You can access personal email, but keep in mind the Bureau will keep a log of everything you do on this machine."

"Big brother is watching."

"Better believe it. In fact, some of the team are planning to watch you. They're signing up for days to follow you when you leave for lunch."

"Good to know. Why warn me?"

"They claim they're refining their skills at tailing suspects. If they want an education, seems like you should know. Give you time to prepare a lesson plan. If it's all in fun, like they say, then let's make it fun. If it turns into harassment, you need to let Agent Burke know."

That afternoon, Jones caught up with Neal in the 21st floor kitchen, where Neal was frowning at the coffee maker. "This is some of the worst coffee I've ever tasted," Neal said.

"Yeah. So, um, I have to ask. Hitchum says he followed you to an adult video store, a condom store, and a leather fetish shop? Is he making that up?"

"Nope."

"What are you doing to say if Hitchum tells Agent Burke?"

"That I was Christmas shopping. I have very interesting friends."

"I'll bet you do," Jones said. "What's it going to be tomorrow?"

"I'm considering packing a lunch for a few days, and seeing how they deal with boredom."

At the end of the day, Peter summoned Neal upstairs to his office and asked, "How was the first day?"

"Like you said, research isn't the most exciting thing, but I need to know how to do it. I gave Agent Wiese my notes for the cases I think can be closed with what I found. There's one more I'll keep looking into tomorrow. How long till I can work on some bigger cases, and actually go into the field?"

"Probably after the start of the year."

"You know, Peter, you don't have to worry about me. What happened last week, that's really rare. I go years between flashing back to that time."

"Yeah, well I need some time to get over it. But mostly I want to wait until I'm back from vacation before setting you loose in the field. Remember, I don't send new guys out alone. I'm going to partner with you when the right case comes along. As far as worrying about my team goes, that's part of my job. And Ellen had a few things to say to me about keeping you out of trouble. I promised her I'd keep an eye on you. And speaking of Ellen, she sent you a Christmas gift."

Neal was surprised. "The Marshals let her do that?"

"I'm pretty sure she evaded the Marshals on this one. Somehow I was temporarily added to the church's email distribution list, just long enough to get a monthly newsletter containing a video of the Christmas concert. The performers were named, with your name conveniently left out, and there was a note to share the video out to anyone who might have been missed. I'll forward it to you, now that you have an FBI email address. But I'm curious, any idea how she got my email address?"

"I might have slipped one of your business cards into her pocket when I hugged her goodbye."

"I thought it might be something like that."

"It wasn't illegal. It's like un-pick pocketing."

"Could be a useful skill in the field, to get a message to someone without others noticing. I'm not going to complain about that. But here's something almost everyone does complain about." Peter slid a stack of papers across his desk to Neal. "Bring these back to me end of day tomorrow. They're your enrollment forms for benefits, 401k, and direct deposit of your paycheck."

"Mozzie will have a field day with these. Big brother really is taking over my life."

"Mozzie?"

"You know him as Dante Haversham."

"I wish I didn't."

On his way back to his desk, Neal asked Jones, "What's your day to follow me?"

"Tomorrow."

"Do you have a car?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Tomorrow's going to be your lucky day, Agent Jones. What better way to follow me, than to escort me where I'm going? Oh, and I should ask: Are all your vaccinations current?"

"Just tell me there aren't going to be rats."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Tuesday at noon, Neal directed Jones to take them to the hospital, and led the agent to a pseudo-family room. It was a space for patients and their families to hang out, furnished and decorated to help people forget they were in a hospital. There was a big-screen TV, a host of toys, and a piano. Neal played a few Christmas carols for the families who were there, and some of the children made requests for their favorite Christmas songs. Then a more mature, alto voice asked him, "Are you too young to know any Sinatra?"

"No, ma'am," Neal answered. "I've recently started taking an interest in his songs." He played and sang "Young at Heart," glancing up only briefly when the alto voice joined his. Soon a man joined in, too, his voice shaky but determined.

"Thank you," said the third voice when the song ended. He was a wiry African-American man, around 60 years old, seated in a wheel chair. "Makes me wish I could still dance with my lovely bride. But instead she has to wheel me back for my medications. I hope you'll come back again, play another song for June and me."

"I hope I can," Neal answered. He played one more Christmas carol and then stood. It was time to get back to the Federal Building.

"That was nice, I guess," Jones said as they started down the hall. "But I'm still wondering what we were doing here."

"I promised someone I'd stay in practice. Unfortunately your average New York City apartment doesn't have space for a piano, much less neighbors who want to hear you play. It's taking some creativity."

"I might have a solution." They turned to see June, who said, "There's an apartment sitting empty in my home, and we have a music room, with a piano that doesn't get enough use. If you were willing to play for Byron, I think we could come to an agreement on the rent." She smiled sadly. "Bryon doesn't have much time left, and the pain is getting worse. A little music and conversation with someone who appreciates Sinatra would mean the world to him."

"Excuse me, Mrs…?" Jones said.

"Mrs. Ellington."

"Mrs. Ellington, you're offering to open your home to a complete stranger? For all you know, Caffrey is a felon."

"So was Byron." She pulled a card out of her clutch, with the name June Ellington and an address on Riverside Drive, and handed the card to Neal. "Can you stop by around 8 this evening?"

"Yes, I'd be delighted," Neal said. "I'm Neal Caffrey. I'm a mostly reformed felon, never convicted. Jones works for the FBI, but he seems decent enough." He patted his suit pocket, then looked at Jones. "Can I get business cards?"

"Yeah, there's a form for that." When they got back to his car, Jones said, "If anyone asks, I'm saying you spent the lunch hour Christmas shopping, again. No one would believe the truth."

"Sure," Neal agreed. "If anyone asks, I never spotted you."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

At the end of the business day, Neal returned the forms to Peter, including the form for business cards. Peter raised a brow when he saw that one, but didn't comment on it.

Peter paged through the other forms to confirm everything was in order, and paused near the end. "Henry Winslow, again. That name keeps popping up."

"Does it?" Neal asked.

"You've listed him as your emergency contact. And as your beneficiary for your 401k. Take a seat, Neal, and close the door." When Neal had followed those instructions, Peter said, "Something else that popped up is your travel plans. You booked a flight to DC for the night of Christmas Eve, flying back here Sunday night."

"Jones said we get Thursday and Friday as holidays."

"That's right. I'm not concerned about the time off. I'm concerned about where you're going. Are you planning to look up your family in DC now that you're officially out of WITSEC? Because I have to tell you, you have no idea what the Marshals told them when you and your mother disappeared 21 years ago. Showing up on their doorstep out of the blue at Christmas might sound like a great reunion, but I really don't think it's a good idea."

"Don't worry, Peter. I have it on good authority that the Caffrey family is spending the holidays in New York. By going to DC for Christmas, I can do a little research on my mother's family at a time when I can completely avoid running into them."

"And this _good authority_ of yours is who, exactly?"

"Henry Winslow."

"Do I want to know how he knows?"

"Probably not."

Peter glared at him.

"It's not illegal," Neal said. "Well, not his part, anyway. Or my part. But my mother may have stretched the boundaries of the law a little bit. Are the rules surrounding WITSEC considered laws?"

"People sign a contract when they enter WITSEC. It's considered legally binding."

"I see. I'd rather not incriminate my mother, if that's ok."

"It's only your second day," Peter groaned. "Already you're turning my black-and-white world into a swirl of looming gray areas. WITSEC. Mothers bending laws. Your _force of chaos_."

"More creeping than looming, I think."

"Creeping gray areas. It sounds like a horror movie. Is there anything else going on in your life I need to be aware of?"

"I'm looking at a new apartment tonight. It doesn't get more boring or normal than that, right?"

"Maybe there is hope."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"This is incredible," Neal said for about the 10th time as he looked at the apartment on the top floor of June and Byron Ellington's mansion. "All this for $700 per month?"

"It's not about the money," June said. "If I wanted to make a profit, I'd rent the space out for parties. No, this is all about the heart, and making Bryon happy. Speaking of which, the closet is this way. It's filled with Byron's old suits. Byron noticed that the suit you wore at the hospital was a very classic style. He called it a modern take on the original Devore. You know, Sy was an old friend of ours. Nice man, terrible poker player."

"You knew Sy Devore?"

"Yes. In fact, now that I think about it, you're Byron's size, at least his size when he was your age. It would be wonderful if someone got some use out of these clothes again."

"Sy Devore suits?"

"Yes, some were designed by him. And there are some fedoras, too, as I recall, if you wear hats. I always liked the look of a man in a fedora."

The apartment, the rooftop terrace, the suits, the fedoras, the price. It was too good to pass up. And then they stepped into the music room. "May I?" Neal asked, and when June nodded he sat down at the piano and played the song Michael Darling had given him after the Christmas concert. There was a haunting chorus, "Always alone, always alone" that changed to "Never alone" at the end of the song, as the song's storyteller finally finds what he's been looking for.

It wasn't perfect. The song had some rough spots Neal needed to discuss with Michael. But it fit what Neal was feeling tonight, the longing and excitement and fear around the new job, possibly connecting with his family, and renting a space from a total stranger. The transformation from a loner into a team player and a family member would have its challenges, but he was willing to face them, to stop being "always alone."

"This is exactly what I needed," Neal told June.

"Then welcome home."

_A/N: Coming up in the next (and last) chapter of this story, Peter will meet June. He'll also compensate for the lack of tracking anklet. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Trust but Verify**

**New York, FBI White Collar Division. Friday afternoon, December 19, 2003**

"You wanted to see me?" Jones asked.

"Yes, come in, shut the door," Peter instructed. "I want to ask a favor of you. Will you keep an eye on Caffrey for me?"

Jones took a seat in Peter's office. "Sure. Happy to. Anything in particular I'm watching for?"

Peter sighed. "I have no idea what to expect from him, honestly. I've been warned about what could happen if he gets bored, though, so at least make sure he has something to work on when I'm out next week. Beyond that, try to keep him out of trouble."

"I'll do my best."

"How's he handling the lunch-time tails?"

"You know about that?" Jones asked.

"Yeah, well, I'm an FBI agent."

"He ran Hitchum ragged the first day, never staying anyplace for long. The rest of us he took caroling at a local hospital." Jones smiled.

"You seem to have connected with him, more than anyone else on the team."

Jones shrugged. "For a year now, I've been the new guy and the youngest member of the team until Caffrey came along. My first 6 months, half the people here called me 'Junior' instead of 'Jones.' I get what it's like, and I'm grateful it's not me anymore. He's a likable enough guy, but I'm not blind to his faults."

"Such as?"

"He's impetuous. He knows he should keep a low profile around here and blend in while we get used to him, but he can't help showing off. And if there's something he doesn't want to do, he'll try to either talk his way out of it, or convince someone else to do it." Jones paused. "I have to ask. Why did you want him on your team?"

"He's brilliant," was the first thing that came to mind. "If we can harness his mind and energy, he's going to help us do great things here. The flip side is, if we don't keep him on the straight-and-narrow, he could go down in flames and take some of us with him." Peter paused, considering how much of his own speculation to share with Jones. "It's a risk, I know, but my gut tells me that he can do this, and more than that, he needs this. He needs the structure, the direction, the example that we'll set, and the knowledge that we want… or that we _need_ him to do the right thing. That he can make a difference."

"Sounds like you've given this a lot of thought."

"I have. I keep coming back to your point that he's the youngest member of the team. I'm torn between feeling like his boss or his dad. In fact, I called my own father last night for advice. He reminded me that when I was 24, I wanted his input, but on my terms. I didn't want my parents hanging over my shoulder watching and judging everything I did. I wanted their respect, and their trust."

"Yeah, but at 24 you were completing a master's degree in accounting. You hadn't accumulated years' worth of cons, thefts, and forgeries."

"That's where you come in," Peter said. "I know this is asking a lot, but I want you to act as the filter. Monitor his accounts, his old aliases, his phone records. If you see something suspicious, dig deeper. I'm not looking for detailed reports or daily updates. Just let me know if I need to step in."

"You want me to spy on him."

"It's the best compromise I could think of. You've shown you have good instincts. After a while, if you tell me you haven't found anything to justify that level of monitoring, we'll stop. But at first… Do you have Christmas plans?"

"I'm going to hang out with my brother and his wife. They're local."

"I've talked to Hughes about our options for monitoring Neal over the holidays, when he travels to Washington DC. Hughes told me about a hush-hush program the government recently initiated, to gather raw data from the major cell phone carriers. It's a mass of data. Not just the standard times and numbers of phone calls, but the content of text messages, the locations of cell phones based on the towers carrying their calls or messages. It's supposed to be used for identifying and tracking terrorists, but we need to run some tests, determine how to mine and use the data so we can be sure of what we're doing when we need to track a terrorist. Hughes agreed we could use Caffrey's phone for one of our tests."

"That way you don't need a warrant. No one knows about the tracking, and the results don't go on record anywhere."

"Exactly. He's not a suspect, just a test case. And it's not like we're monitoring him 24/7. Over Christmas, pull his data occasionally, and plot his movements against a map of the DC area. I don't need to see the results unless you find something suspicious."

"Anything else?" Jones asked.

"Yeah, one more thing. I want you to look into Henry Winslow."

"One of Caffrey's aliases."

"That's right. But this is a real person, one who reputedly agreed to share his identity. I want to know if he's going to cause problems for Neal or the Bureau. And if you find a connection between this Winslow and someone named Shawn, look into that, too."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The Monday morning after Christmas, Jones was called back to Peter's office.

"How did it go?" Peter asked him.

"It would make my job a lot easier if Caffrey upgraded to a phone with GPS. Tracking locations by cell towers isn't very precise. The only thing that might be a concern was that he spent a few hours in a very upscale residential neighborhood on the 26th and 27th. Could have been casing a location and then breaking in. I'll follow the DC news and police reports for a few days, see if there are any reports of a theft from that part of town. But so far it's been quiet."

"Thanks. Hitchum stopped in a few minutes ago, to tell me Caffrey's new apartment belongs to a known felon. Were you aware of that?"

"I didn't know you'd asked Hitchum to watch Caffrey, too."

"I didn't. He's looking for extra credit. But I have to say, that's a big red flag. Associating with criminals, and a lease that indicates an incredibly low rate. It makes me wonder what they want from him. Can you tell me what's going on there?"

"I can, but it's complicated. You know how they say a picture is worth a thousand words?"

"Yeah."

Jones opened the door to Peter's office. The team were all headed upstairs to the conference room for the morning briefing. "Hey, Caffrey!"

Neal popped out of the line leading to the conference room and smiled at them. "Good morning, Jones. Welcome back, Peter."

"That offer for dinner tonight still good?" Jones asked.

"Absolutely. When I asked for your help moving, I didn't realize it would involve moving half the furniture in June's music room, too. I owe you, man."

"I'm the one who pointed out they should rearrange things for a wheelchair to get through. Would it be ok to bring a guest?"

"I knew it! I knew you had a girlfriend you weren't telling me about."

"Not a girlfriend. Just a friend."

"Sure. June will be happy to see you and a friend. I hope you both like Spanish food." Neal patted Jones' shoulder and headed back toward the conference room.

"I'm your date?" Peter asked.

"A picture is worth a thousand words. And some things you have to see for yourself."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

And Peter saw it. A mansion. Byron Ellington, suspected of any number of cons and frauds, and convicted twice. June Ellington, the elegant and gracious wife. Two beautiful daughters who spent the evening rolling their eyes at their father's stories and fussing over him. Two sons-in-law who mostly tried to stay of the way. Two granddaughters who laughed and screamed and were obviously loved by one and all. And Neal Caffrey, hanging on Byron's every word and willing to do anything Byron and June asked.

After an amazing dinner, while June and her daughters sang a song to Neal's accompaniment, Peter said, "He needs this."

Jones nodded. "I can't get Caffrey to say a word about his family, but I think it's pretty obvious he's never had anything like this. I know what you read about Byron's record. He spent some time in prison before he met June, and again early in their marriage. Then there was a scare after the youngest daughter was born, when he almost did time again. He decided he needed to be here for his family, and turned his life around for them. He's not ashamed of what he's done. You can tell from his stories and their reactions that he likes to brag about his adventures. But he doesn't regret giving it up. I don't think you could find a better role model for Neal, someone who really understands where Neal has been and the pressures against you when you try to change your life. And the man has maybe 2 months to live, 3 at the outside. He's going to be spending that time at home, on hospice care, because the doctors can't do anything more for him but prescribe pain medications. It lights up his eyes when he gets to tell his stories to someone who hasn't heard them before. Caffrey's doing good here, and keeping busy away from old friends and old, illegal hobbies. I know why Hitchum's report concerned you, and I could give have given you the facts. But in this case I thought you needed to see the reality."

Peter wasn't entirely comfortable making a distinction between facts and reality, but he was convinced that Neal should keep the apartment here. He tried to grab his coat and make an unnoticed exit, but June caught him in the hall.

"I hope you had a good evening, Peter."

"Yes. It was very enlightening."

"I understand Neal and Clinton work for you at the FBI."

"That's right."

"I hope you aren't concerned about Neal living here." June's voice was warm and gracious, but there was an underlying core of steel. It implied she would have sharp words for Peter if he objected to June and Byron as Neal's landlords.

"Not at all. Not anymore. Clinton made a strong case that Byron is a good role model for Neal, and I have to agree. I suppose I'm not the most patient when it comes to Neal turning his life around. Things seem easy or obvious to me that probably aren't to him. I'm glad to see he has a support system here."

"He does. He has a good heart, and we're happy to help him."

"I might not be able to identify with him the way you can, but I do sincerely want him to succeed. If you see him struggling, I hope you'll let me know how I can help." Peter handed June one of his business cards.

June took the card and shook his hand, something he realized she had smoothly avoided doing when he arrived. "As they said in Casablanca, 'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"

Jones jumped in at that point, telling June he should leave, too, and Peter offered him a ride.

In the car, Jones asked, "You still want me to keep an eye on Caffrey?"

"Yeah. I think we should. Byron's a good influence, but losing a mentor can be hard. Let's keep watch until Neal gets past that."

"Trust, but verify."

"Words to live by."

_ A/N: Thanks for reading! I do have more sequels in mind for what I'm calling the "Caffrey Conversation" series. There will be more tidbits about Henry & Shawn for humor, more flashbacks of Neal's suppressed memories for angst, more about the Caffrey family in DC, and of course much more of Peter and Neal adjusting their father/son dynamic as they work together._

_The next story I have in mind for this series is set over New Year's Eve, and is tentatively titled By the Book. Neal will finally get to go into the field. Peter will fret about what Neal did over Christmas. Mozzie will return. There will be guns and cats and H/C. And possibly a safe to crack in the middle of a party. But enough teasing; I need to get back to writing._


End file.
